UGS8  UBRARY 


THE  HARVEST  MOON, 


AND 


OTHER   POEMS. 


BY 

G.   NELSON   BRIGHAM. 


CAMBRIDGE 

at  tfjc  0i 

1874. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

G.  N.  BRIGHAM, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Vermont. 


SECOND  EDITION. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED  AND   PRINTED   BY 

H.  O.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


To 

JULIA  LENA  BRIGHAM, 
C&fs  little  Volume, 

WHICH  IN   ITS  PRINCIPAL  POEM   GIVES  SOMETHING  OF  A 

REFLECTION,  AS  AN   EVENING  TWILIGHT,   OF  A 

DAY  WHICH  IS  PAST, 

IS  TENDERLY  OFFERED. 


CONTENTS. 


PAQl 

HARVEST  HILL i 

THE  HARVEST  MOON      .......  6 

THANKSGIVING  DAY 61 

SNOW-FLAKES 63 

THE  SNOW-BIRDS 67 

SONG  OF  THE  SMITHY 69 

SONG  OF  THE  REDBREAST 71 

THE  HOE         . 73 

ECHO  LAKE 75 

THE  BOBOLINK 81 

A  SUMMER'S  DAY 83 

CAMEL'S  HUMP 90 

THE  BLUEBIRD'S  FAREWELL 94 

OVER  THE  HILLS     .....'....  97 

THE  SNOW-STORM 99 

IDA  LEXORE 105 

LAURA  o'  THE  HILL .  108 

ALICE  BY  THE  BROOK no 

THE  BABY  BOY 113 

FOR  WHAT  YOU  ARE,  ISABEL 115 

LlLLIE 117 

'Tis  SPOKEN 119 

THE  FRIENDS  THAT  WE  HAVE  MET 120 

THE  MOTHER'S  GRIEF 122 

ELLULE 124 

HETTIE  AT  THE  SPINNING-WHEEL         ...  128 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAOH 

HEIGH,  Ho,  HUM 131 

THE  OLD  HOME  COTTAGE 133 

ORCAS  —  YOUTH 137 

SONG  OF  JEPHTHAH'S  DAUGHTER 141 

THE  SHADOW  LAND 144 

THE  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  ANGEL 146 

LILLIAN ' 149 

ANASTASIA 151 

SHERIDAN'S  ADDRESS          .        .        .        .  .        .157 

FORWARD,  VERMONT 160 

THE  ENSIGN  OF  WARWICK 163 

THE  MONITOR 167 

COMING  FROM  THE  WARS 172 

ARGIVE  HELEN 174 

LOFNA  HALL 181 

THE  SNOW  FAY 195 

ANGEL  OF  BEAUTY 199 

THE  BROKEN  BELL 200 

SONG  OF  THE  HYACINTH 205 

To  THE  EVENING  WIND 208 


THE   HARVEST   MOON. 


THE   HARVEST   MOON 


HARVEST  HILL. 

A     LINE  of  cliffs,  breaking — then  slopes 

A  down  to  where  a  river  gropes 
Lazily  among  the  level  farms, 
Marge-growing  elms  spreading  their  broad  arms. 
And  then  a  village,  snug  within 
The  hollow's  cup,  which  long  hath  been 
The  market  for  the  farmers  round  ; 
A  place  where  honest  thrift  is  found. 
And  from  the  cliffs  a  northern  course, 
Afar,  some  dread  convulsion's  force 
A  shaft  hath  flung  high  up  athwart 
The  blue,  which  like  a  giant  swart 
Looks  from  his  smoky  curtains  out, 
A  monarch  of  the  world  about  — 
l 


THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

Old  Camel's  Hump,  whose  shadow-line 
Reaches  .Winooski's  wood  of  pine. 
Lifted  to  heaven,  in  somberest  pall 
Westward  long  stretches  a  sky-line  wall, 
The  old  Green  Mountains'  storm-smit  ridge, 
A  buttress  spanned  with  azure  bridge  ; 
Where  slowly  sinks  through  hazy  blue 
The  red  sun  down  beyond  our  view. 
A  valley  where  a  noisy  brook 
Frets  on  by  many  a  turn  and  crook 
A  league,  to  mix  its  waves  below, 
Where  the  dull  river  moves  more  slow. 
Here,  at  the  outlet,  in  olden  time 
A  merry  grist-mill  sung  its  rhyme. 
A  long  up-stretch  from  this  old  mill, 
And  by  the  cliffs,  lies  Harvest  Hill ; 
With  acres  to  its  orchards  grown, 
Broader  acres  in  spring-time  sown, 
And  great  meadows  in  summer  mown ; 
Autumnal  fields,  drowsy  in  haze, 
Where  softly   shimmer   the  sun's  slant  rays; 
Hills,  veiled  as  hooded  monks  austere, 
Half  hidden  in  smoky  atmosphere. 


HARVEST  HILL. 

Here  through  the  hazy  veil  strong  bow 
The  reapers  o'er  the  gavels  now ; 
Or  ply  their  sickle's  bow  edged  keen 
Where  lapsing  fields  are  whitened  seen; 
Or  nearer,  where  some  home-bound  swain, 
Patient  wends  on  by  loaded  wain, 
His  whistling  cheers,  while  faintly  heard 
The  cow-bell  on  the  slope's  green  sward. 
There  stand  the  gray-eaved  barns  remote, 
With  weather-cock  in  rusty  coat, 
Where  yielding  udders  brim  the  pails, 
And  often  beat  autumnal  flails  ; 
Here,  too,  the  farmer's  evening  horn 
Winds  mellow  'mong  the  fields  of  corn. 

How  cheerily  the  cliffs  are  woke 
Where  curls  the  cottage  chimney's  smoke ; 
How  cheerily  from  crag  to  crag 
The  failing  echoes  seem  to  lag. 

It  is  the  mellow  evening  horn, 
Calling  the  stookers  of  the  corn ; 
A  wind-born  blast  of  sonorous  sound,      , 
Slow  lost  on  distant  hills  around. 


THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

Homeward  the  laborer  takes  his  way 
O'er  fields  late  mown,  and  raked  of  hay, 
While  little  faces,  fair  and  sweet, 
Come  romping  to  the  farmer  meet, 

Each  claiming  now  the  well-earned  kiss, 
Which  gained,  feels  its  full  store  of  bliss. 
The  welcome  board  —  what  grateful  eyes 
For  what  a  father's  hand  supplies. 

What  peace  is  in  this  homely  cheer 
Which  wakes  a  gratitude  sincere. 
What  blessings  in  the  wean  one's  smile 
The  wee  bright  eyes  which  speak  no  guile. 

How  lightly  rounds  the  weary  moil, 
His  children  brightening  from  his  toil ; 
His  wife  grown  happy  by  his  hearth, 
Who  gave  the  little  bright  ones  birth. 

Who  as  the  grangeman  walketh  free 
Nature's  old  hall  of  royalty  ? 
Who  in  the  spring-time  freshening  gay, 
So  cheerful  to  labor  wends  his  way? 


HARVEST  HILL. 

Scatters  broadcast  and  waits  to  see 
The  season's  rendered  prophecy, 
Or  garners  up  a  richer  boon 
Each  annual  of  the  Harvest  Moon  ? 

Ne'er  feel  it  shame  to  till  the  sod; 
Where  else  walks  man  more  near  to  God  ? 
Where  else  is  life  more  honest  led? 
Are  men  to  virtue  better  wed? 


THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

OLOW  rose  the  mellow  moon,  as  sank 

The  sun  below  that  purple  bank 
Of  far-off  hills  ;   a  round  full  disk, 
Up  from  behind  an  obelisk 
Of  mountain  lift,  she  came,  the  gold 
Of  twilight  caught  in  many  a  fold 
Of  fleecy  cloud,  and  Occident 
Streaming  from  every  seam  and  rent. 
On  such  a  night  we  annual  met, 
'Twas  held  a  sort  of  social  debt, 
Discussed  the  orchard's  first  ripe  fruit ; 
Ourself  then  in  a  kersey  suit 
From  the  plain  pattern  of  the  loom 
Which  half  filled  up  a  great  square  room. 
Here  as  the  genial  hearth's  soft  glow 
Crept  cheerful  through  the  andiron's  bow, 
Our  chat  and  hearty  mirth  went  round ; 
And  not  unfrequent,  too,  was  found 


THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

•The  hale  cider-mug,  whose  juiciness, 
Sparkling,  came  lately  from  the  press. 
And  of  the  pleasant  evening  walks, 
Many  we  made  'mong  autumn  shocks 
And  luscious  orchards  hanging  red, 
The  mellow  Harvest  Moon  o'erhead. 
Heard  from  the  crag  the  gray  coon's  horn, 
Which  called  the  culprit  from  the  corn; 
The  barking  fox  replying  soon, 
Which  rambled  by  the  shining  moon. 
Not  e'en  the  distant  grove  was  dumb, 
For  there  was  heard  the  partridge's  drum ; 
Nor  where  the  hoary  harpers  sleep, 
Did  all  the  witch-elms  silence  keep ; 
Weird  rose  from  yon  moon-lighted  hill, 
The  wild  refrain  from  whippoorwill ; 
While  a  sweet  psalm  'mong   autumn  leaves, 
Was  wrought  by  the  finger  of  the  breeze. 
And  yet  there  lives,  and  never  dims, 
The  mem'ry  of  those  evening  hymns  ; 
The   moony   fields   so  spread  with  calm; 
The  lighted  halls  where  rose  earth's  psalm. 
And  in  .  our  walks  and  Tjy  the  hearth 


THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

That  then  was  lighted  with  our  mirth, 
Was  one  of  high  fair  brow,  and  sweet 
Of  countenance  as  you  would  meet; 

Twelve  youthful  spring-times  we  had  seen 

• 
Her  romp  when    the  first  knoll  was  green. 

Her  tripping  feet  'mong  violets, 

And  where  the  gray  spring  ground-bird   sets  — 

Oft  in  her  blithesome  song  did  mark 

All  the  sweet  carol   of  the  lark. 

Saintly  had  been  her  walk  of  life 

From  childhood  up ;  there  seemed  less  strife 

Between  the  holier  spiritual  sense 

And  what  are  baser  elements, 

Tlfen  falls  to  most;   even   the  rare, 

Whose  virtues  are  spring  flowers  most  fair. 

A  mother's  consecrated  heart 

Had  its  sweet  blossoms  here  in  part; 

Wrote  out  a  new  Apocalypse,  ' 

Where  shone  a  sun  with  no  eclipse  ! 

For  where  she  moved,  the  very  air 

Seemed  off'ring  the  benison  of  prayer. 

Scarce   more  was  she   than  the  fair  child, 

When  heavens  sweet  light  had  on  her  smiled ; 


THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

She  walked  to  the  baptismal  font, 
Her  head  had  saintly  hands  laid  on't, 
There,  as  she  turned  her  eyes  above, 
All  white  saw  the  descending  dove. 
And  when  she  talked  of  harvest  moons, 
Of  pleasant  Mays  and  violet  Junes, 
She  always  talked  of  heaven,  and  hopes 
In  worlds  revealed  by  telescopes  ; 
Of  springs  which  ne'er  a  winter  mars, 
Somewhere  above,  among  the  stars. 
And  one  who  was  our  sister  dear, 
Whose  mirth  sometimes  swam  in  a  tear, 
Who  kept  for  us  the  happiest  face, 
Did  then  our  little  circle  grace ; 
Such  lightsome  heart  was  never  wed 
To  such  bewitching  art  of  head. 
A  ringing  voice  of  song  and  mirth 
Chasing  her  footsteps  from  her  birth, 
She  was  the  loved,  the  petted  pride, 
Nor  asked  her  honors  to  divide 
Within  a  little  circle,  where, 
Of  joys  and  griefs,  each  bore  his  share. 
So  here,  to-night,  sister  and  friend 


10  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

Made  opposite  moods  to  sweetly  blend, 

While  light  the  cheerful  evening  hours 

Went,  mirth  raining  her  sunny  showers 

At  times  ;  at  times,  sobriety 

Checking  too  noisy  gayety. 

Well  pleased,  anon  our  jovial  sire 

Peered  in   upon  the  night's  small  fire, 

And  gave  for  us  his  pithy  joke, 

Most  sure  our  laughter  to  provoke  ; 

Who  drank  with  us,  there   housed  so  snug, 

New  cider  from  the  brimming  mug, 

And  told  us  of  the  country  here 

When  grandsire,  he  at  his  sixteenth  year, 

Came  in  from  old  Winchester  town, 

Miles   Standish  like,  to  settle  down. 

He  told  the  hardships  of  the  wood, 

And  how  the  maples  towering  stood 

Upon  the  orchard  land  when  first 

They  came  to  old  Vermont.     Not  worst 

Was  this,  for  not  a  road  was  built 

Within  two  miles  on  which  to  tilt 

A  barley  grist  to  mill.     How  for 

A  year,   as  Northmen  tent  in  war, 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  II 

They  tented  by  the  fallow  field, 

Logged  up  and  burned  for  first  year's  yield. 

Told  how,  when  afterward  the  old 

Log-house  was  built,  upon  a  cold 

December  night  the  spotted  lynx 

Showed  his  red  eyes  between  its  chinks: 

Of  visits  from  the  wolves,  which  oft 

The  sheep-herd  scattered  on  the  croft. 

He   told  of  how  the  opening  grew, 

And  of  the  pitch  of  neighbor  Drew ; 

Of  the  first  pike  that  wended  down 

A  zigzag  way   out  of  the  town  ; 

Of  how  he  found  his  bashful  mate, 

In  kitchen  of  old  farmer  Wait; 

An  orphan  girl  of  sprightly  limb, 

Of  ruddiest  face,  plain  dressed,  and  trim, 

Who  oft  upon  the  lawn  was  seen, 

Calling  the  cows  from  pastures  green, 

Or  helping  homeward  the  young  lamb 

Neglected  by  its  bleating  dam. 

He  told  us  of  her  matron  ride 

To  what  was  called  the  old  North  Side; 

And  on  a  bridle-path  that  thwart 


12  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

The  Ridge,  ran  a  league  the  old  pike  short; 

A  way  so  blind  she  only  found 

Blazed  trees  for  guide  to   Marble's  bound, 

Whose  log-hut  told  all  the  dwelling  that  was 

Frpm  Ridge  to  ugly  Pudy  Laws. 

One  child  behind,   one  fore,  she  rode, 

A  half  broken  mare  bearing  the  load, 

To  what  was  then  a  trading-post,  — 

A  poor  apology  at  most; 

She  making  purchases  of  things 

Which  only  country  traffic  brings  : 

Some  spices  grown  in  Ind ;  one  half 

A  pound  of  tea,  trade  winds  in  gaff, 

Brought  from  the  China   Sea ;  a  comb 

From  house  of  Stilt  and  Wetterholm  ; 

Some  yards  of  print  with  duty  paid, 

Coming  somehow  .through  Boston  trade. 

E'en  the  frugal  house  to   be  without 

These  needs,  would  hold  its  thrift  in  doubt  ; 

And  further  now,  it  was  about 

The  time  that  Parson  Jotham  made 

His  quarterly  call.     He  was  a  staid 

Genteel  old  man  in  gown,  who  prayed 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  13 

God  for  our  souls  ;  had  a  fervid  grace 

'Twas  said,  if  the  tea-pot  stood  in  place. 

But  what  he  told  with  fondest  pride 

Was  what  was  called  the  Harvest  Ride ; 

When  all  about  the  neighborhood, 

In  checkered  gown  and  barley  snood 

She  rode  singing  the  Harvest   Hymn, 

While  shone  above  the  moon's  broad  limb. 

Forgot  no  neighbor  in  distress 

Nor  passed  the  poor  in  lowliness; 

For  like  received   in  social  rank 

Such  as  had  credit  at  the  bank, 

And  such  as  had  so  little  thrift 

By  hard  day's  works  they  made  a  shift. 

THE  HARVEST  HYMN. 

"GiVE  thanks,  O  trustful  heart  of  mine, 
Thy  blessings  are  from  care  divine  j 
He  who  provides  the  ravens'  food 
Still  watches  over  all  for  good. 

"Thrust  in  and  reap,  and  now  rejoice, 
It  is  thy  labor's  rich  invoice ; 


14  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

Bring  in,  it  is  the  harvest  noon ; 

Glean  on,  there  shines  an  Autumn  Moon. 

"Labor,  and  what  thou  havest  more 
Than  need,  bestow  upon  the  poor ; 
God's  mete  to  you  is  as  you  mete ; 
Forget  not  thou  the  stranger's  feet. 

"In  prayers,  in  songs,  and  tears  confess, 
And  give  thy  heart  to  thankfulness  ; 
And  in  this  harvest  promise  see 
A  hopeful  immortality. 

"  O,  toil  thou  on  in  bravest  mood, 
Doubt  not  but  God  is  only  good ; 
What  thou  dost  to  thy  Master  lend, 
Fourfold  he  payeth  in  the  end." 

A  sort  of  saint  she'd  almost  grown, 
Whose  time  was  now  no  more  her  own; 
He  said,  "she  is  too  old  to  still 
Go  round,  the  nurse  of  Harvest  Hill ; 
But  yet  her  helpful  hand  to-night 
Works  where  the   taper's  dimmest  light 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  IS 

Flickers  within  the  noiseless  room, 
Where,  beaten  in  earth's    sorrow  loom, 
Lies  one  to  pain  and  paleness  given 
By  which  to  gain  the  gate  of  heaven. 
Thus  it  hath  ever  been  that  she 
Keeps  to  her  deeds  of  charity. 
The  sick  child  breathes  a  sweeter  nap 
If  she  but   lulls  it  on  her  lap ; 
The  couch  seems  softer  which  she  spreads 
TO  all  the  weary,  aching  heads ; 
The  children  dance  to  see  her  face, 
Struggle  to  meet  her  in  a  race ; 
She  is,  as  they  have  .understood, 
Grandmamma  to  half  the  neighborhood." 
He   told  of  wedding  -days,  and  rides 
Upon  the  old  ox-sled  for  brides ! 
How  neighborhoods  met  thrice  a  week 
Round  foresticks  large,  the  winters  bleak, 
To  burn  a  candle  down.      "  To  speak 
The  truth,"  he  said,  "his  neighbors  then 
Were  quite  a  different  sort  of  men 
From  neighbors  now.      Were  brothers  e'en, 
But  kind  as  neighbors  once,  between 


1 6  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

The  two  next  Sabbath  morns  we'd  see 
All  the  attorneys  blocked  half  fee  ; 
Aye,  half  the  quarrels  of  the  town 
Clad  for  burial  in  the  sepulchre's  gown. 
In  other  days  none  were  kept  down  — 
If  down  were  helped  upon  their  legs  ;   ' 
Shame  that  society  hath  dregs. 
Then  were  no  castes,  'twas  neighbors  all  j 

The  needy  had  the  friendly  call, 

• 

The   sick  man's  work  neighbors   o'ersee  ; 
All  hands  turned  out  and  made  a  bee. 
We  used  to  have  our  chopping-bees, 
Our  clearing-bees,  and  raising-bees  ; 
And   later  had  our  apple-bees. 
The  harvest  moon   brought  husking-bees ; 
And  here  is  one  well  told  in  rhyme, 
Which  smacks  much  of  that  good  old  time 

THE  HUSKERS. 

"  THE   hazy  clouds  of  Indian   Summer 
Now  fringe  the  border  of  the  sky  ; 
And  down  along  the  smoky  valleys 
The  grouping  birds  of  passage  fly; 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  17 

Northward  the  gently  sloping  woodlands 
Creep  down  to  make  the  meadow's  hem, 

There  crimson  leaves  slow  drop  and  rustle, 
So  tender  grown  the  frost-nipt  stem. 

"With  ripened  apples  hang  the  orchards, 

And  groans  the  busy  cider-mill. 
On  either  side  the  travelled .  turnpike, 

And  by  the  road  along  the  hill, 
You   see  the  stocks  and  yellow  pumpkins; 

And  there  the  ruddy  harvesters 
Loading  the  wain,  while  in  the  beech-tree 

The  squirrel  works  among  the  burrs. 

"All  through  the  afternoon,  descending 

i 

From  midday  to  the  golden  west, 
The  sun  flames  red  upon  the  hill-tops, 

And  paints  his  banners  on  each  crest ; 
And  as  he  sinks  behind  the  mountains 

Among  the  clouds,  a  fiery  ball, 
With  round  full  orb,  in  east  ascending 

Rides  on  the  mellow  moon  of  Fall. 
2 


18  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

"The  milkmaids  hurry,  while  the  heifers 

Stand  dozing  round  and  chew  their  cuds  ; 
And  noisy  younkers  shout  and  whistle, 

Along  the  lane  below  the  woods. 
The  fancied  sound  of  rattling  dishes, 

Where  smoking  from  the  oven  comes 
The  pot  of  beans  and   Indian  pudding, 

Brings  water  from  their  oozing  gums. 

"With  sharpened   appetite  they  gather 

In  haste  to  greet  the  ample  board ; 
Confessed,  in  manner  puritanic, 

With  thanks,  the  husbandman's  reward ; 
Discussed  with  zest  the  wholesome  supper, 

A  dish  which  makes  a  ruddy  face, 
Of  old  served  to  our  stalwart  fathers, 

The  bone  and  sinew  of  their  race. 

"And  now  from  wooden-colored  farm-house 

The  young,  hale  farmers,  thick  and  stout, 
In  kersey  frocks,  in  coarse  thick  homespun, 
In  a  hurly-burly  bustle  out, 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  19 

And  whistling  down  the  winding  turnpike, 
Approach  good  farmer  Bixby's  door,  — 

Who  half  the  day  has  busy  carted 

His  corn-stocks  to  the  great  barn  floor. 

"And,  at  more  leisure,  thither  follow 

The  staunch  and  jovial-hearted  men, 
Who  cheerful  from  their  hard  day's  labor 

Join  to  the  husking-bee  till  ten. 
And  sometimes,  too,  turn  in  the  matrons 

Who  walk  with  knitting-work  in  hand;  — 
And  why  those  times  so  good  and  pleasant, 

Are  now  so  rare,  don't  understand. 

"Into  the  mow  the  pitchforks  fasten, 

From  whence  the  lighted  lanterns  hang; 
And  seated  round  a  clean-swept  centre, 

Commence  the  joyous  husking  gang; 
Now  from  the  rustling  sheaves,  the  harvest 

Of  yellow  ears,  of  husks  stript  bare, 
Leaps  forth,  with  beaded  rows  and  golden, 

And  fast  the  foodful  heap  gains  there. 


20  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

"With  legend  bold,  and  quaintly  story, 

And  marvel  told  in  scaldic  style; 
With  joke  and  pun  and  rustic  gossip, 

They  pass  the  hours  while  grows  the  pile 
Till  ten  o'clock,  when  sweet  new  cider, 

Apple  and  pumpkin  pies,  hale  samp 
Or  hominy,  bring  out  a  ballad, 

And  of  our  true  New  England  stamp. 

SONG. 

" '  O,  TO  the  dark-eyed  maiden  thanks ! 
Who  nurtured  here,  in  days  of  old, 
Along  meandering  river  banks, 

The  yellow  corn,  the  seed  of  gold ; 

"'Who,  saint-like  watched  the  tender  sprout, 

While  thieving  crow  and  blackbird  sat 
Upon  the  tall  old  trees  about, 

And  held  the  bold  marauders  chat. 

"'Who  charmed  at  night  the  planted  field,1 

That  God's  good  gift  might  not  be  lost ; 
*   l  It  was  the  custom  of  the  Indian  women  to  trail  their  garments 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  21 

•  And  trailed  her  garments  as  a  shield 
Against  the  wire-worm  and  the  frost 

" '  Who  spaded  here,  with  sun-tanned  face, 

A  very  goddess  of  the  wood ; 
Who  nursed  with  care  her  swarthy  race, 
And  gave  them  hominy  for  food. 

" '  And  thanks  unto  the  Yankee  girl, 

The  girl  of  puritanic  stamp, 
Who  sprightly  makes  her  ladle  whirl, 
Beating  the  corn-meal  into  samp. 

"'The  sweet  new  corn,  ground  coarse  and  fast, 

Which  every  miller  knows  to  be 
The  way  to  make  this  good  repast  — 
The  true  old  bowl  of  hominy. 

" '  Let  Southern  lands  grow  grape  and  cane, 

.The  juicy  vats  flow  on  the  Rhine, 
New  England's  sun  and  gentle  rain 
Grow  best  this  Spirit  gift  divine. 

around  the  field  of  corn,  thinking  it  made  a  charm  over  which  the 
worm  and  the  frost  would  not  pass. 


«2  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

"'Let  orange  groves  nod  on  the  slopes 

Where  warmer  Mexic  summers  reign, 
The  barley  sheaves  greet  Scotland's  hopes, 
But  give  to  us  the  Spirit  grain  ; 

" '  The  true  mandamin  of  the  wood, 

The  berry  which  the  prophets  say 
The  Father  gave  his  child  for  food, 
When  faint  he   by  his  wigwam  lay. 

"'Yes,  give  us  corn,  ripe  Indian  corn, 

The  farmer's  joy,  the  fireside  cheer; 
Good  samp  at  night,  brown  loaf  at  morn, 
Pop-corn  while  winter  rules  the  year.'  " 

He  had  something  most  quaint  to  say 
Of  manners  in  that  ancient  day  ;    • 
Of  courtships  made,  and  gallantry, 
The  apple  made  the  trysting  tree. 
Of  bachelors  who  found  no  art 
The  keeping  castle  of  the  heart, 
But  by  some  game  of  Cupid  fell, 
The  barb  shot  by  a  country  belle; 
Of  blind-man's  buff  and  whirligig, 


THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

The  dance  then  called  a  country  jig ; 

Of  harvest  moons  that  often  set 

As  honey-moons ;  of  times  when  met 

Bright  girls  in  plainest  dimity, 

Sweet  girls  of  virgin  purity,    • 

Who  knew  the  scrub  and  shift  of  life, 

And  held  the  honest  pledge  of  wife" 

Apart  an  old  man  sat,  the  trace 
Of  years  deep  channeled  on  his  face. 
Care  showed  her  wrinkles  on  his  brow, 
And  white  his  beard  as  winter  snow  — 
Some  cobbling  he  as  yet  could  do ; 
Thus  busied  himself  beside  the  fire 
And  told  us  tales,  as  our  grandsire. 
He  spoke  of  hardships  most  severe 
To  men  who  new  laid  townships  clear ; 
Of  men  who  with  the  triple  peck 
Of  corn,  borne  swung  across  the  neck, 
On  rackets  over  dale  and  hill 
Have  plodded  twenty  miles  to  mill ; 
For  meat  eat  flesh  of  moose  and  deer. 
Spoke  pointedly  of  a  cold  year 


24  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

When  all  the  Indian  corn  was  lost 
In  broad  New  England,  by  the  frost. 
Of  that  cold  snap  called  the  cold  day, 
When  men  frost-bit  shunned  the  highway, 
Pale  men  round  yule-logs  bowed  to  pray. 
We  doubted  if  he  did  not  joke 
When  he  of  our  first  Judges  spoke : 
He  said  from  Mooretown  East  they  came 
To  Kingsland,  a  myth,  except  in  name, 
Travelled  on  snow-shoes  all  their  way, 
And  somewhere  on  the  second  day 
Opened  the  court  by  an  old  mossed  tree ; 
No  barrister  there  made  his  plea  — 
Suppose  they  charged  only  term  fee  ; 
Present:  first  judge,  John  Taplin  the  eld; 
The  sheriffs   post,  John  Taplin,  Jr.,  held; 
John  Peters  of  the  Quorum  known, 
John  Peters,  too,  a  clerk  full  blown ; 
All  that  the  records  say  appeared 
At  Kingsland  court  old  and  revered. 
All  heard ;   granclsire  was  never  flat ; 
He  once  had  with  the  genial  sat; 
Had  now  sometimes  a  point  in  wit, 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  '• 

If  but  well  warmed  the  brain's  broad  net. 
He  was  most  sharp  on  shams,  o'ergrown 
Conceits,  namby-pambys,  and  all 
Rouged  trifles  —  sins  were  these  not  small 
Of  ours.     He  said,  "Virtue  is  known, 
Revered,  where  most  revered  is  toil ; 
She  rarely  floats  a  stream  of  oil. 
The  dimity  of  other  years 
Is  like  hearse-cloth,  a  cloth  for  biers. 
Ladies  genteel  have  honored  well 
The  comely  check.      And  e'en  the  belle 
In  it  has  cut  a  dashing  swell," 
But  he  would  say,  "  A  virtue  rare 
Was  that  their  work  once  clothed  the  fair. 
We  may  not  see  the  day  again, 
Yet  time  shall  say  the  age  was  sane. 
Hardly  delaines  and  calico 
Now  make  in  dress  sufficient  show  ; 
Poplins  and  silks  (who'd  thought  it  once?) 
Trot  out  unblushingly  the  dunce. 

There  was  a  time  that  men  were  men, 

t 
Of  a  true  womanhood.     Time  when 

The  lady  of  the  Governor 


26  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

Would  verily  have  thought  it  was  a  slur 
To  placard  round  the  old  genteel, 
Disdainful  of  the  household  reel. 
Ah  !  many  changes  in  the  play ; 
We've  walked  the  stage,  and  of  our  day 
'Tis  like  the  drama  of  a  dream  — 
To  us  most  real,  but  others  deem 
It  but  a  farce  —  a  vision  born 
To  night,  not  tempered  to  the  morn. 
Some  thread  must  run  of  warp  or  woof 
Which  of  the  parent  stock  shows  proof; 
Will  shifting  time  weave  in  pure  gold 
To  fill  the  tougher  warp  of  old  ? 
We  rest,  they  take  the  labor,  where 
Is  left  in  sod  the  turning  share." 
He  ceased,  too  long  by  ardor  fired, 
And  to  his  nightly  couch  retired. 

Here  my  good  aunt  in  muslin  cap, 
Roused  from  the  mitten  where  the  nap 
And  fringe  had  busied  her,  withal 
The  kitten  playing  with  her  ball, 
The  puritanic  plainness  seen, 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  2? 

With  woman's  intuition  keen. 

She'd  won  the  sobriquet  of  good  ; 

Her  prayers  were  constant  as  her  food. 

She  spoke  of  the  old-time  patient  mood 

Which  fasted  long  and  prayed  the  Lord 

For  what  the  larder  didn't  afford. 

Fasting  and  prayer  the  people  knew 

In  days  when  noblest  virtues  grew. 

The  sacrifice  of  pious  men, 

The  scattered  poor  of  hill  and  glen, 

Planted  the  seed  at  God's  command 

From  which  we  reap  a  father-land. 

And  pious  men  and  women  too 

Had  struggled  here,  and  poorly  to  do, 

In  building  up  a  Christian  state  — 

This  be  its  praise  rather  than  great. 

She  praised  to  us  the  wheel  and  loom, 

The  kitchen  which  had  seen  the  broom, 

The  fingers  which  knew  how  to  knit, 

Or  sew  to  make  the  garment  fit ; 

Could  knead  the  dough,  the  butter  mould 

To  huge  ingots  of  yellow  gold. 

New  England  homes  were  happy  homes 


28  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

For  what  of  patient  labor  comes  ; 

In  that  they're  rarely  childless  homes, 

Though  not  in  clime  where  knighthood  blooms. 

Kind  daughters   and  obedient  sons 

Are  links  in  a  chain  that  heavenward  runs. 

Then,  placing  back  a  thin   gray  lock, 

She  gave  our  childish  senses  shock 

By  tale  of  Indians  who  once  made, 

And  before  our  county  lines  were  laid, 

On  Brookfield  town  a   nomad  raid, 

Stole  off  a  little  lad  at  play 

As   they  went  North  upon  their  way. 

Bore  him  in  spite  a  mother's  shrieks 

To  the  wild  valley  of  the  Leeks  :  l 

When  last  heard  from,  the  tale  in  brief 

Made  him  an  Abenaqui  chief. 

Heard  of  the  flight  of  gray  wild-goose, 

The  yards  where  camped  the  river  moose. 

She  told  us  how  good  Deacon  Rice 

Came  into  Kingston  on  the  ice, — 

The  snow-crust  on  an  April  day 

1  Winooski  River  was  so  named  from  the  abundance  of  the 
leeks  on  its  banks. 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  29 

Making  the  fields  one  glazed  highway ; 
Drove  in  on  sled  o'er  stump  and  fence; 
To  roads  there  wasn't  the  least  pretense, — 
And  how  he  came  full  ten  miles  through 
Great  Warren  woods  (the  town  so  new 
But  a  hunter's  tent  was  seen)  to  the  mill 
Now  idle  and  old  at  the  foot  of  the  hill ; 
Bought  corn  to  eat  and  seed  to  plant. 
Found  General  Wait  on  a  Wentworth  Grant, 
Whereon  he  moved  and  built,  not  far 
From  seven  years  date  from  the  Old  War. 
And  here  her  voice  ran  through  a  stave, 
By  which  we  learned  of  a  wayside  grave. 

THE  PIONEER'S  GRAVE. 
"  'Tis.  near  Mad  River's  winding  beach, 
And  where  the  school-house's  shade  doth  reach, 
A  little  mound  doth  humbly  rise 
With  mossy  bosom  to  the  skies : 
The  honored  spot,  as  men  do  tell, 
Where  the  tall  forest  tree  first  fell; 
Whose  crash  echoed  the  vale  adown, 
When  the  first  settler  came  to  town. 


30  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

Sturdy  the  arm  which  swung  the  blow 
That  felled  the  pine  so  long  ago  ; 
A  pine  whose  shadow's  length  to-day 
Would  fall  over  the  street's  trod  way ; 
But  ah !  beneath  the  selfsame  earth 
Which  gave  the  tree  its  ancient  girth, 
The  pioneer  hath  made  his  bed, 
Willing  the  grounds  unto  the  dead. 
A  simple  stone  fast  falling  down, 
Defaced,  and  of  the  ancient  brown, 
Tells  who  was  namer  of  the  town. 
The  droning  mills  have  ceased  to  grind, 
The  new  have  left  the  old  behind  ; 
Along  the  murmuring  river's  side, 
The  rhythm  of  waters  multiplied, 
The  coachman  drives  his  foaming  steed, 
And  here  the  grazing  cattle  feed. 
Acres  that  then  were  solitude 
Now  swarm  with  all  their  living  brood, 
But  they  who  blazed  the  ancient  oak 
Rouse  not  the  idle  axe's  stroke." 

Told  of  the  old  eventful  day, 

When  in  the  bright  new  moon  of  May, 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  31 

The  first  male  child  in  town  was  born ; 
What  auguries  in  Capricorn  — 
How  that  a  handsome  lot  of  land 
Was  made  to  him  by  seal  of  hand, 
And  Master  Farr  was  then  a  man 
As  much  as  was  old  Kubla  Khan. 
His  foster-mother  saw  in  him 
The  marks  to  make  old  records  dim. 
And  others  said,  "  Such  is  his  star, 
He'll  honor  Wait,  —  call  him  Wait  Farr." 

Meanwhile  our  uncle  had  come  in, 

A  man  much  set,  could  pet  a  whim ; 

A  man  of  brusque,  not  boisterous  ways, 

Some  versed  in  books  of  earlier  days; 

A  man  in  face  now  somewhat  spare, 

With  head  once  crowned  with  thin  black  hair, 

Still  nursing  hard  his  favorite  cue, 

And  with  broad  buckle  on  each  shoe ; 

Who  with  his  sharp  ahem  began 

To  cut  his  pattern  of  a  man. 

"The  man  that  is  not  good  to  work, 

A  man  that  always  loves  to  shirk, 


32  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

You'll  find  grumbling  at  the  foot  of  the  hill ; 

A  dog  that  never  gets  his  fill, 

A  dog  that  whines  and  scolds  to  see 

His  neighbor's  bowl  of  hominy. 

A  man  should  be  an  honest  man, 

Or  sometime  goes  under  the  ban  ; 

There  is  no  truer  maxim  known, 

Than  that  honor  knows  its  own  ; 

That  honest  be,  if  honesty 

With  you  keeps  any  company." 

He  loved  to  meet  the  solid  men  : 

"Hen  Fever  boys,  Jockies  —  in  ten 

Not  one  of  them  d'you  ever  see, 

Gather  full  bowls  of  hominy ; 

Where  one  got  on  in  fancy  breeds, 

Ten  put  a  mortgage  on  their  deeds. 

'  In  rain,  a  bowl  of  good  broad  brim ; 

In  water,  keep  depths  you  can  swim.'  " 

He  talked  of  native  breeds  for  cows, 

Of  well  filled  bins  and  clover  mows, 

Of  stately  oxen  for  the  cart, 

And  boys  at  ten  for  farm-work  smart ; 

Of  district  schools  for  all  free  States, 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  33 

And  less  of  locks  and  prison  grates. 
He  was  a  man  of  politics, 
And  told  us  of  the  British  tricks ; 
Of  Tories  in  the  Old  First  War, 

And  Federals  in  the  War  of  Twelve; 
Of  yeoman  bred  to  brave  hussar, 

And  lady,  too,  whose  hands  could  delve, 
Or  serve  the  court,  if  so  'twere  need  — 

All  native  to  the  cliff  and  glen, 
When  shrilly  from  the  mountain  reed, 

The  clansmen's  slogan  called  for  men. 
Warming,  his  rapid  history  ran 
Of  Vermont  chiefs  who  led  the  van : 
The  rarity  of  Allen's  gifts, 
-Which  by  some  magic  coil  uplifts 
A  few  small  burgs  despised  and  poor, 
Scattered  on  mountain  waste  and  moor, 
To  all  the  dignity  of  state ; 
Contesting,  too,  it  seemed,  'gainst  fate. 
He  entered  warm  into  the  feud 
The  Yorkers  with  the  settlers  brewed ; 
And  praised  the  sterling  Saxon  grit 
That  buffeted  New  York's  bad  wit. 

3 


34  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

"A  feud,"  he  said,  "where  Honesty 
Outflanked  poor  old  Cupidity  ; 
Checkmated  three  old  governors  ; 
Who,  like  big  dogs  pouncing  on  curs, 
Determined  in  their  great  manors 
To  swallow  up  our  old  Vermont  j 
And  all  the  peasantry  upon't. 
The  Aliens  and  the  Warners  were 
The  men  to  hold  a  stout  demur ; 
Worse  than  the  bite  of  fierce  horse-leech 
Rob  Cochran's  seasoned  twig  of  beech. 
Talking  of  men  'mong  demurrers, 
No  prince  our  Fay,  the  senior,  slurs, 
Nor  either  of  the  Robinsons  ; 
And  if  you'd  spike  the  Tory  guns, 
Put  Yorkites  through  old  mill-stone  burrs, 
Remember  Baker  was  the  man. 
The  Chittenden  who  led  the  van 
Of  magistrates,  wore  shoe-buckles  — 
But  Martin  wore  only  truckles." 
Praised  much  the  old  school  gentlemen, 
The  Waits,  Bradleys,  and  Jarvises, 
Roe,  Spooner,  and  old  Jersey  Slick,1 

1  Isaac  Tichenor. 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  35 

• 

Men  whose  etiquette  was  not  a  trick ; 

And  praised  the  old-time  parishes 

Whose  clergymen  preached  not  for  gold, 

But  those  out  of  the  Lord's  true  fold. 

Spoke  of  taxes  and  the  embargo ; 

Of  England's  ancient  Boston  cargo ; 

And  thought  she  should  have  remembered  better 

Jonathan's  reply  to  the  old  Stamp  letter. 

Gave  us  hair-breadth  escapes  men  made 

In  Canada's  illicit  trade ; 

The  conflict  of  the  old  Black  Snake, 

A  smuggling  cruiser  on  the  lake, 

Whose  brigand  crew  defied  the  law, 

And  ran  the  eagle's  hooked  claw; 

Shot  Ormsby  down  to  show  their  mood, 

And  all  because  they  thought  they  would. 

Our  Federals  were  a  white-feathered  brood  j 

And  the  smugglers  choosing  the  devil's  side, 

Would  with  the  devil  on  dark  nights  ride. 

'Tis  said  the  way  the  game  was  won 

On  that  highway  called  "  Smuggler's  Run," 

Would  make  a  Christian's  blood  run  cold : 

Too  dark  indeed  to  here  be  told. 


36  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

And  the  Governor  winked  at  these  men  of  booty ; 
He  thought  such  things  a  little  sooty 
In  Chittenden  and  Dan  Farrand, 

And  wished  the  good  old  state  had  sent  them 
To  Iceland  on  some  foreign  errand, 

Or  had  had  an  Ethan  to  content  them. 
For  one,  he  liked  the  old  cock -hat, 
And  the  old  fashioned  Democrat  — 
The  men  who  went  for  country,  right 
Or  wrong,  who  never  ran  a  fight. 
He  loved  the  Independence  days, 
June  trainings  in  old-fashioned  ways: 
Talk  which  gave  temperature  to  blood, 
Which  makes  Democracy  to  bud. 
But  things  were  quite  inclined  to  show 
A  decadence  ;  yes,  years  ago 
The  world  went  on  somewhat  less  fast, 
Steadier,  and  in  a  way  to  last. 
We  cannot  run  all  things  by  steam, 
Race-horses  make  a  poor  draught  team. 
He  told  us  then  the  song,  "What's  True;" 
And  how  the  brook  ran  ever  new. 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  37 

t  WHAT'S  TRUE. 

"A  MAN'S  a  man  in  coat  or  gown; 
A  man's   a  man  when  up  or  down  ; 
A  knaves  a  knave  in  slippered  shoe, 
In  broadcloth  fine  or  kersey  blue. 

"The  wrong  is  wrong  in  you  or  me, 
And  right  will   right  forever  be ; 
The  false  is  false,  nor  is  it  true 
Though  dressed  so  well  'tis  not  seen  through. 

"It's  not  for  you  to  run  or  shirk 
When  there  is  for  your  hands  a  work ; 
But  like  the  busy  brook  in  song 
Water  the  thirsty  way  along." 


SONG  OF  THE  BROOK. 

"  I  FLOW  and  sing,  I  sing  and  flow, 
The  merrier  the  further  I  go  — 
'Tis  well  I  sing  that  you  may  know 
There  is  one  merry  heart  below. 


38  THE  HARVEST  MOOtf. 

"I  make  the  budding  hill-side  green, 
And  all  the  valleys  by  me  seen, 
And  laughs  each  shrub  and  flower  I  ween 
To  see  the  lily  on  me  lean. 

"  I  tarry  not  in  wood  or  grove, 
In  blooming  fields  through  which  I  rove, 
Nor  eddies  hold  me  in  the  cove, 
But  ever  on  and  on  I  move. 

"  I've  wheels  to  turn,  and  shops  to  run, 
Each  day  a  work  that's  well  begun 
Goes  onward  with  the  moving  sun, 
And  yet  there's  something  to  be  done. 

"  If  I  am  old,  I'm  always  new, 
For  to  myself  I'm  always  true  ; 
The  idle  always  I  eschew, 
And  waste  no  moments  e'er  so  few. 

"  Flow  on  and  on  my  way  forever, 
From  rill  to  brook,  from  brook  to  river, 
Sounds  and  sights  delay  me  never; 
My  song  is  on"  and  on  forever." 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  39 

And  still  another  sat  that  night 
Beside  the  fireside's  waning  light^ 
Where  in  a  low  adjoining  room 
He  lit  his  pipe  with  strand  of  broom, 
And  puffed  a  cloud,  which  slowly  rose 
About  a  thin  and  pointed  nose  ; 
When  he  had  heard  my  uncle  through, 

Rapped  out  the  ashes  from  his  pipe, 
Drank  of  the  cider  sweet  and  new, 

And  took  an   apple  large  and  ripe ; 
Then  told  us  much  about  star  lore, 
The  strange  conjunctions  at  our  door 
Of  fate  —  of  luckless  moons,  and  moons 
Of  luck,  and  how  to  know  our  dooms. 
Life's  problem  lies  'mong  stars.     His  book 
Was  Nature's  book ;   in  every  brook 
He  found  a  tongue,  in  every  tree 
He  heard  an  unheard  melody; 
Found  wizard  haunts  where  others  see 
Forces  at  work  quite  differently. 
A  bachelor  somewhat  in  years, 
With  something  of  the  negligence 
That  usually  in  such  appears  ; 


40  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

A  man  of  views  and  confidence, 
And  ready  always  with  his  head 
Or  hand,  beside  the   sick  man's  bed ; 
Was  sort  of  doctor  and  a  nurse, 
Who  never  asked  an  open  purse, 
But  always  settled  off  his  bill 
By  a  receipt  of  your  good-will. 
Who  kept  a  wonderment  among 
The  gossiping  maidens  and  the  young  j 
A  favorite  with  the  little  folks, 
And  took  and  gave  their  playful  jokes: 
He  had  been   teacher  of  the  school 
In  reign  of  dunce-block  and  ferule. 
Had  travelled  widely  o'er  the  globe, 
Dressed  in  a  sort  of  Quaker's  robe  ; 
Gazed  in  on  Fingal's  Staffa  Cave, 
Which  he  believed  the  sea-kings'  grave; 
Clomb  on  in  search  of  Morven's  heights, 
So  streamy  with  the  Northern  Lights ; 
Bowed  at  the  shrines  where  Druids  held 
Their  worship  in  the  days  of  eld  ; 
Looked  from  the 'old-time  pyramids, 
Where  Nilus  with  his  weeping  lids 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  41 

Mourns  o'er  a  glory  all  behind 
Historic  page  or  grasp  of  mind  \ 
Went  Mississippi  up  on  old 
Flat-bottomed  boat,  as  we  were  told; 
Had  sat  upon  the  Indian  mounds, 
Caught  in  the  wind  interpreting  sounds; 
Looked  on  the  prairies'  endless  sea 
With  great  traditions  of  mystery. 
Thus  versed  in  old  astrologies, 
He  read  by  them  the  prophecies 
Of  men  and  things ;  had  by  the  stars 
Revealed  the  fortunes  of  the  Farrs ; 
Told  when  would  run  the  county  cars, 
Had  pried  a  secret  out,  of  old, 
A  murder  done  in  town  for   gold. 
And  now  a  haunted  house  was  found ; 

Men's  bones  hid  in  the  cellar  ground: 

• 
Besides,  were  circumstances  which 

Disclosed  a  missing  man  named  Rich. 
Afterward  one  Masters,  very  poor, 
Had  left  upon  a  Spanish  moor, 
A  Venice  merchant  soon  became  ; 
The  stars  had  written  out  his  name. 


42  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

He  knew  of  one  who'd  seen  the  ghost ; 
Blood  had  been  seen  to  ooze  from  post, 
To  drop  from  sleeper  and  from  sill; 
Cries  heard  which  did  with  horror  chill. 
By  stars  once  found  a  missing  child, 
Which  wandered  three  days  in  the  wild. 
He  had  the  horoscope  of  all 
The  prodigies  from  Bixby's  Hall 
To  Griggs's  dorm,  at  Step-down  Hill. 
Conjunctions  which  the  corn-bins  fill 
Were  in  that  mighty  horoscope 
Through  which  the  circling  planets  grope. 
"There  was  the  fate  of  Idylrood, 
And  the  bachelor   of  the   neighborhood : 
A  vain  attempt  'twere  to  resist 
Stern  nature's  subtlest  alchemist ! 

We  cannot  leap  o'er  Heaven's  bars, 

. 

Our  fortune  still   is   in  our  stars." 
He  took  his  harp  in  gravest  mood, 
Then  gave  the  song  of  Idylrood. 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  43 


IDYLKOOD.     s> 

"THE  sun  hangs  low  'mong  hazy  cliffs, 

The  roof  is  mossed  at  Idylrood; 
The  autumn  leaves  drop  from  the  trees 
About  the  leaning  gates  of  wood. 

"Summers  ago  the  farmers  hoed 

Their  waving  fields  of  Indian  corn, 
And  buxom  girls  with  auburn  curls 
Here  wound  aloud  the  dinner  horn. 

"The  little  country  folks  were  seen 

Returning  from  the  strawberry-bed, 
Oft  coming  by  the  tall  grown  rye, 
With  cheeks  of  brown  and  fingers  red. 

"And  Jenny  Poole  with  sunny  hair 

Oft  wandered  with  me  in  that  day, 
Sweet  Jenny  Poole,  who  went  to  school 
The  while  I  spread  her  father's  hay. 


44  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

"  Sweet  Jenny  Poole,  who  coming  home 

Would  take  her  milk-pail  on  her  arm, 
And  thought«?it  then  no  harm  for  men 
To  toil  and  scrub  upon  a  farm. 

"Who  seemed  delighted  overmuch, 

When,  at  the  table  gathered  round, 
We  asked  for  cake  of  Jenny's  make, 
Saying  never  was  better  found. 

"  One  day,  and  in  the  trimmest  trim 
Young  Jenny  went  from  us  away, 
And  for  this  lad,  it  was  a  sad, 
Sad  time  to  go  a  making  hay. 

"Right  from  her  father's  well-filled  mows 

I  came  to  see  sweet  Jenny  start ; 
She  was  most  fair  among  the  fair, 
And  Jenny  had  the  warmest  heart 

"She  kissed  them  all  and  bade  good-by; 

At  last  she  gave  her  hand  to  me, 
Each  drooping  lid  a  tear-drop  hid; 
My  own  eyes  blinding  ran  most  free. 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  45 

"  She  went  among  her  city  folk 

To  learn  the  fashions  of  the  day, 
And  I  a  sad  and  ruddy  lad 
Then  went  to  work  among  the  hay. 

"  'Twas  said  she  loved  cotillons  well, 

She  dressed  and  waltzed  and  was  a  belle ; 
That  she  became  O  very  vain, 
And  didn't  bear  promotion  well. 

"  The  summers  came,  and  winters  came, 

And  Jenny  still  did  not  return; 
We  did  not  hear  her  voice  so  clear, 
When  bright  the  winter  fires  did  burn. 

"The  spruces  stand  in  darkening  cones 

As  when  she  was  at  Idylrood  ; 
The  north  wind  blows  the  winter  snows, 
The  hemlocks  moan  within  the  wood: 

"  And,  while  we  sit  beside  the  hearth, 
We  think  of  dearest  Jenny  Poole, 
Whose  song  was  heard  like  winter  bird 
Here   sitting  with  us  after  school. 


46  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

"I  question  if  she  thinks  of  us 

Who  used  to  spread  her  father's  hay, 
And  of  the  times,  the  many  times 
We  chased  the  lambs  up  Heather  Way. 

"  And  of  the  times  the  beech-nuts  fell,  — 

Those  loose  brown  nuts  in  hollow  burrs ; 
The  nuts  we  sought  within  the  grot, 
Then  gathered  cones  among  the  firs. 

."If  she's  forgot  the  blackberry  thorns 

That  used  to  scar  her  pretty  hands ; 
If  she's  forgot  the  pasture  lot, 
Or  hedge  that  bounds  the  meadow  lands ; 

"The  golden-rod  upon  the   hill 

Whereon  the  fiery  hang-bird  built; 
The  partridge  brood  within  the  wood 
We  chased  till  weary  of  the  tilt. 

"Who  runs  to  please  her  petty  moods? 

Is  there  another  Heather  Way? 
Need  she  be  told  I'm  growing  old, 
Who  used  to  spread  her  father's  hay? 


THE  HARVEST  MOOM  47 

"  She's  a  cap,  they  say,  for  a  millionaire : 

Who'd  have  thought  it  of  our  country  Jeane, 
Who  left  the  cows,  and  boys  at  plows, 
And  is  in  silks  on  Broadway^  seen  ? 

"I  don't  suppose  she'd  know  us  now, 

So  very  altered  have  we  grown  ; 
She's  not  the  girl  with  sunny  curl 
That  we  in  Idylrood  have  known: 

"And  I  am  not  the  ruddy  boy 

With  step  so  light  in  olden  time: 
Years  sow  their  care,  my  coal-black  hair 
A  sprinkling  shows  of  hoary  rime. 

"The  paths  grow  weeds  at  Willow  Gate, 

The  trees  stand  brown  in  Hopehill  wood, 
The  dry  grass  waves  o'er  many  graves 
Of  those  who  sleep  near  Idylrood. 

"The  aged  one  by  one  have  left, 

Like  hoary  oaks  when  sere  and  dry; 

Beside  their  bier  has  dropped  the  tear, 

While  they  have  passed  into  the  sky. 


48  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

"  How  changed  is  all  at  Idylrood ! 

How  strange  a  change  !  for  moss  is  where 
The  pansies  grew,  the  violets  blue 
Which  Jenny  braided  in  her  hair; 

"  And  long  ago  the  dove-cot  fell  ; 

For  when  a  driving  storm  of  snow 
Swept  up  and  down  through  Waitsfield  town, 
Its  fastenings  yielded  to  the  blow. 

"The  farm-house  looks  more  dark  and  gray, 
The  broken  well-sweep  thick  is  moused; 
And  year  by  year  are  changes  here 
Whereby  the  ancient  marks  are  lost. 

"And  while  she  tarries,  tarries  long, 

Who  was  our  playmate  in  the  wood, 
We  watch  the  slow  procession  go, 
With  bier  and  hearse  from  Idylrood. 

"  The  cloud  hangs  dark  on  Harvest  Hill ; 
At  Outlet  Mill  the  gray  mists  brood ; 
The  autumn  snow  falls  slant  and  slow, 
Nor  quite  distinct  a  single  rood; 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  49 

"  I'm  sitting  by  the  waning  fire, 

Sad,  thinking  of  that  other  day, 
When  Jenny  Poole  was  child  at  school, 
And  I  a  youngster  making  hay." 

So  while  the  mellow  moon  rode  on, 
Sprinkling  its  rays  on  wood  and  lawn, 
The  taper  shortened,  the  brimming  mug, 
Which  brought  lips'  smack  and  shoulders'  shrug, 
Ran  low,  and  one  by  one  our  guests, 
Who  often  knew  its  sparkling  zests, 
Took  leave;  all  but  my  sister's  friend, 
Who  had  come  in  the  night  to  spend. 
Now  from  the  rude  unpolished  shelf 
Our  father  fitted'  up  himself, 
The  plain  old  Bible,  sheep-skin  bound, 
The  leaves  at  corners  worn  nigh  round, 
Was  taken  down  ;  and  many  a  page 
Worn  thin  by  using  and  by  age 
Was  turned,  till  found  the  holy  psalm 
Which  David  sang  by  Syria's .  palm. 
With  tender  voice  he  read,  "  In  Thee 
O  Lord  I  put  my  trust.      Let  me 
4 


50  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

Never  be  put  to  confusion."      Strong 

And  clear  his  voice  flowed  with  the  song, 

And  like  the  tenderest  prayer  the  tone 

That  melted  from  the  depths  unknown, 

As  slow  he  read,  "  Cut  me  not  off 

In  the  time  of  old  age  ; "  let  who  will  scoff, 

It  seemed  he  got  a  mighty  trust 

That  God  forsook  not  then  the  just. 

"  Thou  hast  taught  me  from  my  youth,"  was  cheer 

To  him  which  brought  the  joyful  tear. 

And  when  that  hope,  of  all  most  worth, 

Shone  out  the  dark,  inurning  earth, 

Such  radiance  beamed  in  those  dark  eyes, 

As  only  comes  from  out  the  skies. 

Slow  down  he  kneeled,  with  fervent  prayer, 

He  gave  us  all  to  God's  good  care. 

Last  gave  himself  to  God's  good  will, 

Believing,  patient,  trusting  still. 

He  rose ;  his  heart  with  God  and  men 

At  peace  ;  the  hour  was  nigh  to  ten. 

A  little  plain  advice  he  gave, 

Some  seasoned  with  experience  grave  ; 

Then  with  a  blessing  (what  worth  who  knows  ?) 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  5 1 

Brought  his  sound  sermon  to  a  close. 
Talk  ceased ;  the  dog  stretched  on  the  rug, 
And  set  aside  was  the  cider  mug ; 
And  backward  to  the  wall  the  chairs 
With  back  to  back  in  single  pairs. 
The  moon  above  gained  slow  the  west, 
And  each  besought  the  hour's  behest ; 

Gave  parting  kiss,  and  said  good-night 
Five-and-thirty  autumns  since  have  blest, 

Or  borne  our  sorrows  in  their  flight, 
And  I  alone  am  left  of  all 

Who  sat  that  evening  round  the  hearth  — 

Alas,  how  little  seems  life  worth! 
Though  I  live  on,  I  wait  the  call  — 
The  shadow  and  the  Harvest  Moon 
Whose  rising  comes  at  furthest  soon. 
O  Reaper,  who  hath  gathered  long, 
Sparing  neither  the  weak  nor  strong, 
What  hopes  to  budding  youth  are  blown, 
Or  golden  seeds  to  time  are  sown, 
But  thou  hast  said  they  are  my  own  ! 
.The  past  thou  hast,  and  hast  supreme. 

Behind,  what  vistas  lie  in  time 


52  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

Over  an  ever  backward  stream, 

All  white  and  cold  in  dust  and  grime ! 
Ah,  who  are  they  in  grief  who  wept, 
When  gathered  at  ripe  years  have  slept 
The  first-born  of  that  hoary  night ! 

Watchers  of  eve's  first-setting  stars, 
Below  where  twilight  brings  to  sight 

The  foldings  of  the  sable  bars. 
And  who,  along  that  spectral  sea, 
Lost  in  a  past  eternity ; 
Whose  bow  spans  through  an  arc 

Which  hath  the  blush  of  coming  morn  ? 
Hath  solved  what  is  to  reason  dark, 

How  that  in  death  the  new  is  born  ? 
Is  ever  there  an  angel's  hand 
Stretching  over  the  darkened  land ! 
Or  white,  as  faintest  evening  star, 
Folds  there  a  wing,  Night's  gates  ajar? 
I  would  have  asked,  didst  thou  heed  prayer, 
That  yet  awhile  thy  greed  should  spare 
One  loving  life,  and  young  of  years.  — 

I  come  and  go  in  the  old  ways 

Where  we  have  rambled  many  Mays. 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  53 

Alas !  she  nowhere  now  appears  ;  , 

Three  years  ago  that  sister  smiled 
On  me,  and  said,  "  Brother,  farewell !  " 
What  hours  hath  she  for  me  beguiled ! 
Her  soft  blue  eye  still  holds  its  spell, 
And,  while  I  think,  my  pulses  swell ; 
I  scarcely  trust  myself  to  speak. 
My  words  but  break,  and  down  my  cheek 
Hot  tear-drops  run.     O,  say  'tis  weak, 
But  closed  the  gate  that  opens  out 
On  Eden  paths ;  from  hence  'tis  doubt ; 
All  now  is  clothed  with  mystery  about! 
What  though  the  morning  spring-bird  sings? 
She  knows  not  of  the  news  he  brings ; 
Here  brood  alone  the  sable  wings, 
Nor  fold  the  curtains,  hanging  where 

Midnight  weaves  through  the  stagnant  air. 
. 
She  was  so  lovely ;  O,  so  full 

Of  life  and  lusciousness  of  health ! 
To  me  her's  was  a  daily  school 

Of  sweet  affections ;  and  what  wealth ! 
We  gave  her  to  the  coffin  —  lay 
Her  breathless  form  'mong  friends  away, 


54  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

^Feeling  how  truly  great  our  loss, — 
"Tow  faithful  she  had  borne  her  cross. 

Sweetly  she  doth  sleep  — 

All,  how  can  we  weep  ? 

She  hath  passed  from  pain ; 
Smiles  caressing, 
Lips  of  blessing, 

Will  she  come  again? 

Lily  fair  the  hand, 
O'er  the  crapen  band, 
With  the  sweet  moss-rose; 

Cheeks  yet  showing 

Cheer  of  going, 
And  life's  peaceful  close. 

Softly  to  the  earth  — 

Is  it  not  a  birth 

To  the  angel  sphere  ?  — 

Give  her  gently 

And  contently, 
Drying  every  tear. 


•     THE  HARVEST  MOON.  55 

That  other;  poor,  O  poor  enough 
My  meed:  sweet  sleeper  under  the  bluff — 
^A  score  of  years  our  sad  hearts  know, 
Since,  on  the  meads  where  June  pinks  grow, 
Or  by  the  paths  on  Harvest  Hill, 
Along  the  wend  by  the  old  mill 
We  saw  her  as  an  angel  pass, 
Who  was  the  borough's  sweetest  lass. 
Was  she  more  fit  for  paradise? 
She  was  not  prudish,  yet,  if  nice 
Hath  been  a  word  not  meaningless, 
In  her  it  hath  been  well  expressed. 
Her  eye  had  heaven's  sweet  radiance, 
A  world  of  goodness  read  at  glance. 
A  score  of  years  ago  we  kissed 

That  forehead  fair,  closed  those  soft  lids 
In  death ;  and  ever  since  have  missed 

Their  Ipveliness.     Still,  Heaven  forbids 
Mine  eyes  to  look  on  what  the  skies 
Have  gathered  home.     Let  me  arise, 
I  sometimes  say,  take  up  my  bed 
And  walk ;  if  so  I  be  but  wed 
Unto  a  life  more  than  the  life 


56  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

That's  in  this  clay,  the  soul's  wed  wife. 
They  better  bargained  when  exchanged 
Was  earth  for  their  sweet  paradise ; 
Could  I  look  in  on  their  dear  eyes 
(Why  to  that  world  be  so  estranged), 
Should  I  not  say,  better  than  earth 
Is  the  sweet  life  of  that  new  birth? 
I  am,  and  I  must  be ;  else  why 
Have  I  so  caught  the  glimpse  of  by 
And  by?     So  threaded  the  unknown, 
Whose  tongue  I  seem  to  half  intone? 
Where  half  are,  if  they  be  —  forgive, 
Who  can  once  doubt  but  that  they  live  ? 
Where  they,  as  was  their  wont,  do  smile 
And  beckon  to  that  song-rapt  isle  ; 
Where  their  dear  lips,  holy  and  pure, 
But  speak  a  love  to  us  the  truer; 
Ay,  are  they  further  off  than  when 
They  walked  with  us  ?     Faith  lack  we  then  : 
O,  where  there  shines  such  holocaust, 
Alas,  they  cannot  be  all  lost! 
Echoes  still  fall,  now  here,  now  there, 
A  voice  that  saith,  they  are,  they  are. 

4 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  57 

I  should  so  mourn,  as  mourns  a  heart 

Alone  to  wretchedness  set  apart, 

If  I  saw  not  an  angel's  face 

Fashioned  to  fill  the  lost  one's  place. 

In  memoriam :  the  violets  peep 

From  'neath  the  snow  j  why  doth  she  sleep  ? 

Her  sportive  feet,  why  are  they  not 

By  the  sweet  birds  and  flowers  brought? 

O  friend  of  mine,  with  Spring's  sweet  breath, 

That  thou  shouldst  thus  be  given  to  death! 

So  are  we  robbed ;  our  nakedness, 

As  withered  oaks,  left  verdureless. 

In  memoriam :  O  how  it  makes 

My  poor  heart  ache,  and  how  it  breaks 

My  soul  apart  to  see,  dear  home, 

As,  from  my  wanderings,  back  I  come, 

The  ravages  that  time  has  made 

With  thee !     Time,  thou  hast  not  delayed. 

In  all  the  neighborhood  a  change. 

Not  one  poor  hamlet  owned,  how  strange, 

By  any  mortal  who  turned  o'er 

The  furrow,  or  walked  from  his  door. 

How  shall  I  join  myself  to  these  ? 


58  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

I  know  them  not.     What  litanies 

Are  in  my  heart  —  what  sorrows  bear 

Me  down !  old  faces  where !  O  where 

Are  they  who  moved  but  yesterday, 

The  life  and  beauty  here?     O,  say 

If  it  be  not  their  footsteps  that 

I  seem  to  hear  ?     I  start  thereat 

To  meet,  as  I  should  meet  it  seems, 

My  friend.     You  cannot  say  "  He  dreams  ! " 

I  never  was  more  wake  in  all 

My  life,  and  then  the  very  hall 

Hath  voices  ringing  through  it  clear, 

Which  none  but  me  do  seem  to  hear. 

O,  life  in  death,  and  death  in  life  ! 

Are  these  to  each  as  man  to  wife? 

Immortals  !    Are  they  born  of  these  ? 

A  wedlock  with  such  prophecies  ? 

O,  turn  us  round,  and  as  we  will 

There  is  a  something  whispers  still, 

Not  all  is  lost  that  seems  so  lost, 

Not  all ;  nor  is  death  uppermost ; 

Nor  have  they  lived  or  died  in  vain. 

The  earth  hath  not  a  fruitless  pain. 


THE  HARVEST  MOON.  59 

As  we  have  lived,  so  shall  we  live ; 

Not  shadows  only  do  we  give. 

I  will  not  say,  wrong  is  the  tear ; 

That  nought  is  falser  than  the  bier; 

But  never  can  I  think  the  grave 

Hath  taken  more  than  what  earth  gave. 

Somewhere  more  fair,  lack  faith  howe'er 

We  may,  their  happy  forms  appear : 

For,  ever  is  the  mightier  trust 

More  than  the  gift  of  dust  to  dust. 

I  take  the  inward  sense,  the  bloom 

Of  Paradise  and  Heaven's  perfume; 

I  walk  and  talk  and  move  with  them; 

They  all  have  touched  the  garment's  hem ; 

Good  cheer ;  are  every  whit  made  whole. 

O,  turning  to  the  backward  goal, 

How  must  they  wonder  that  we  rise 

So  poorly  to  life's  mysteries. 

That  we  do  please  ourselves  with  what 

Is  but  the  very  beggar's  lot ; 

That  God's  sublimest  miracle 

Should  wander  as  a  prodigal ; 

I  do  believe  they  lift  us  up, 


60  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

Have  saved  our  lives  the  wormwood  cup. 
O,  may  they  not  those  angels  be 
Who  save  for  us  Gethsemane  ? 
Who  yet  shall  greet  us  by  and  by, 
The  reaper  Death  then  drawing  nigh, 
And  help  our  feet  to  heaven  climb, 
Garnered  in  God's  great  Harvest  Time. 


THANKSGIVING  DAY. 

r  I  "'HE  bleak  winds  blew  over  a  wintry  coast ; 

The  trees,  hooded  in  snow, 
Crept  back  from  the  sea-strand  to  the  gray  cold  sky, 

And  the  great  sea  chimed  slow. 

Up  from  the  sea  hove  a  ship  buffeting  the  foam, 

Coming  the  great  sea  o'er ; 

Rolled,  rocked,  rocked,  rolled,  and  the  sea  rolled,  as 
she  tugged 

Her  keel  to  the  squall-galled  shore. 

Then  the  mariners  sang  a  song  louder  than  the  sea, 
Louder  than  the  winds  that  blew; 

A  thanksgiving  song  they  sung  as  the  anchor  made 

fast 
To  the  shore  of  an  England  New. 

The  hills  caught  the  refrain,  for  it  was  a  golden  note 
To  the  march  of  empire's  car ; 


62  THANKSGIVING  DA  Y. 

A  sound  whose  wave  ebbs  back  to  the  Puritan  Rock 
From  the  gates  of  the  evening  star. 

Thanksgiving  for  a.  way  all  free  to  the  Pilgrim's  foot, 

Coming  with  staff  in  hand  ; 
Thanksgiving  for  a  virgin  soil  in  which  to  sow 

The  seeds  of  a  mother-land. 

Thanksgiving  that  the  God-born  man  hath  a  freedom 
as  grand 

As  the  chime  of  the  shore  and  sea : 
That  an  anthem  rolls  bearing  a  paean  on 

Threading  the  Great  to  Be. 

A  hymn  gray  Time  in  his  age  hath  bowed  to  hear, 
Looking  from  the  cross  and  stake  ; 

Waiting  by  crucifix  and  altar  long 

Till  the  sound  from  the  morning  break. 

The  great  coast  like  a  summer  hive  busily  hums, 
And  the  sea  keeps  its  slow  chime ; 

But  off  from  the  sea  has  blown  a  wind  that  thrids 
The  sweet  harp-strings  of  Time. 


SNOW-FLAKES, 
i. 

E  the  snow-flakes  in  the  air  — 

Chilly  air ; 
See  them  coming,  coming,  coming, 

Thicker,  thicker,  faster,  faster, 
While  the  trooping  winds  are  drumming 
Up  the  legions  of  their  master  ; 

Shouting  whew,  whew ! 
Ho !  ho !  o'er  the  hills,  through  the  dales 
Whew,  whew !  ho,  ho  !  what  a  sound, 
In  the  raving,  railing  gales  ! 
What  a  sobbing  and  a  moaning, 
What  a  sighing  and  a  groaning, 
What  a  doling, 
What  cajoling, 
What  patrolling, 
With  the  clouds  a-rolling  ; 
What  a  muster,  what  a  bluster, 


64  SNOW-FLAKES. 

In  the  wild  confusion  of  the  air ; 
Snowing,  snowing,  snowing, 
Blowing,  blowing,  blowing  — 

Snowing,  and  then  blowing  with  a  whew  ! 

n. 

How  the  icy  bridges  span  the  streams  — 

Glassy  streams ; 

How  it  glitters  all  along  the  vale, 
In  the  cold  and  moon-lit  air  ! 
Glitters  when  the  sky  grows  clear, 
Glitters,  glitters,  cold  and  glare, 
O'er  the  streamlet  and  the  mere  ; 
Glitters  in  the  moonbeams  pale, 
Glitters  in  the  sparkling  air  — 

Still  and  frosty  air ; 
In  the  cold  and  jeweled  air ; 

Bright  and  jeweled  air. 
Hark!  hark!  hear  the  sledders'  shout  — 

Joyous  shout ; 
How  ecstatic  their  delight, 
Darting  with  a  bird-like  flight, 

Onward  down  the  hill  — 

Smooth  and  slippery  hill ; 


SNOW-FlAKES.  65 

Sleds,  a  dozen  in  a  row; 
What  a  hubbub  and  ado ! 

in. 

Heigh  !  heigh !  hear  the  skaters'  shout  — 

Wildest  shout ; 

Down  the  icy  stream  they  skim, 
Muffled  like  a  Yotlik  grim ; 
Hear  the  ringing  steel, 
See  the  curbing  and  the  wheel ! 
Dodging,  tripping,  tumbling, 
Some  on  knees  are  mumbling ; 
Some  lie  flat  a-grumbling; 
Some  are  joking, 
Some  are  croaking, 
Some  are  swinging, 

Some  are  singing,  , 

Some  are  racing, 
Some  gyrating 
In  their  sport  upon  the  stream  — 

Icy  stream  ; 

Shining  glare,  icy  glare, 

Where  the  joyous  skaters  shout  in  the  moony 
air. 


66  SNOW-FLAKES 

IV. 

What  a  chime  among  the  hills  — 

Moon-flecked  hills  ; 

Look  for  old  Kriss  Kringle  with  his  reindeers 
four, 

Morgan  steeds  escorting  him  a  half  a  score : 

• 
All  along  the  valley  and  the  shore 

What  a  jingle,  jingle  from  the  thills  ! 
How  the  rapid  music  thrills, 
While  the  Pleiades  on  us  stare. 

What  a  flowing,  mellow  air, 

What  a  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 
From  that  circling,  golden  inkle 
Buckled  through  the  flowing  mane. 

Tinkle,  tarkle,  tinkle, 

Tarkle,  tinkle,  tarkle, 
From  the  hollow  chambers  o'er  and  o'er, 
Like  the  quaintest  music  lore 
Chanted  on  the  moonlit  plain. 

Tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

While  the  stars  with  gentle  fleck  and  twinkle 
Softest  light  upon  the  landscape  sprinkle, 
And  the  steel-shod  runners  go 
Whizzing  through  the  snow. 


THE  SNOW-BIRDS. 

A   LL  day  the  winds  have  sighed  without, 
•*•     •     And  swayed  the  beech-tree's  naked  top ; 
In  fitful  gusts  have  whirled  about 

The  scattered  leaves;  a  frozen  crop 
Of  hail  anon  o'ercasts  the  ground, 

And  in  the  hollows  heaps ; 

Now  through  the  haze-rift  peeps 
The  sun — the  snow-birds  flock  around 

The  cottage  yard,  a  crowd 

Of  songsters  from  the  cloud. 

They  twitter  in  their  gayety, 

Among  the  snow-flakes,  starred  and  cold ; 
As  if  they  were  in  ecstasy 

To  see  the  icy  field  and  wold, 
And  Winter  bearded  o'er  with  age ; 
As  if  the  New  Year's  gift 
Of  sparkling,  diamond  drift, 


68  THE  SNOW-BIRDS. 

Of  fitful  sun  and  boreal  rage, 
To  them  had  more  of  love, 
Than  all  the  summer  grove. 

When  hides  the,  sun  and  shout  the  winds, 

Their  white-tipped  wings  are  spread  again, 
And  while  the  sifting  snow-sleet  blinds, 

High  off  is  heard  their  twittering  strain 
Till  lost  within  the  blue  cold  air : 

As  if  in  sporting  glee, 

They  held  a  revelry, 
Among  the  snow-flakes  forming  there. 

Soon  back  they  come,  as  gay 

In  song  as  if  their  way 
Were  only  one  wild  scene  of  mirth  ; 
As  if  the  white  and  purple  clouds 
Were  made  the  places  of  their  birth, 

From  whence  they  shower  in  crowds ; 
A  holiday  for  you,    sweet  birds  ! 

Bright  minstrels  of  the  snow ! 

More  dear,  as  others  go, 
For  you  to  sing  your  warbling  words  — 

To  tell  the  Old  Year's  praise, 

And  cheer  these  winter  days. 


SONG  OF  THE  SMITHY. 

T    BLOW,  blow,  blow,  hammer  and  blow 

With  strong  hard  hands  for  bread ; 
From  morn  till  night,  high  winds  or  low, 
I  blow  to  earn  my  bread. 

I  blow  to  turn  the  tire  and  shoe, 

To  steel  the  axe  and  scythe ; 
I  set  the  temper,  keen  and  true, 

I  weld  the  griping  gyve. 

I  knit  anew  the  toughest  break,  — 
There's  magic  in  my  hands  — 

As  Vulcan's  forge  made  Lemnos  shake 
At  Jupiter's  demands, 

So  I,  one  of  the  smithy  craft, 
Blow  strong,  blow  loud  and  long, 

And  from  my  forge  leap  out  the  shaft, 
The  spade,  the  plough,  and  prong. 


70  SONG  OF  THE  SMITHY. 

They  turn  the  world  all  upside  down 
And  turn  the  down  side  up  ; 

The  forge  starts  up,  where  starts  the  town, 
When  shapes  the  golden  cup. 

The  smithy  is  a  man  to  wear, 

A  man  of  no  mean  place  ; 
Although  some  scout  his  crispy  hair, 

And  shun  his  sooty  face. 

I  start  my  fire,  year  in  and  out, 

As  glimmers  east  the  day ; 
Some  stand  around  me,  hale  and  stout, 

Some  slump  and  run  away ! 

But  honest  here  I  keep  my  stand, 

And  at  my  bellows  blow; 
More  tough  and  hardy  grows  my  hand  ; 

My  forge  keeps  up  its  glow. 

I  save  a  little  every  year, 

Laid  by  for  winter's  snow ; 
And  so  I  keep  my  heart  in  cheer, 

And  steady,  blow,  blow,  blow. 


SONG  OF  THE  REDBREAST. 

PRING    is    come !    spring  is  come  !   hear  the 

red-breast, 
Where  she  thinks  to  make  her  nest; 
"Deacon  Green,"  she  says,  "I  have  come  to  see 
If  the  violets  spring  'neath  the  sheltered  lea : 
I  have  come,  I  have  come  with  the  sun, 
Tap  your  maples  —  they  will  run." 

Spring  is  come  !  hear  the  warble  clear  and  shrill, 

From  the  maple  on  the  hill ; 
"  Spring  is  come !  Spring  is  come,  Deacon  Green, 
For  the  tender  snow-drop  I  have  seen ; 
Did  you  think  it,  did  you  think  it? 
Think  it  till  you  heard  me  say  it? 

"  Spring  is  come !  spring  is  come,  Deacon  Green ! 

There  are  violets  by  the  stream  ; 
Neighbor,  hear  me  !   put  your  fences  up  : 
See  the  tender  grasses  creeping  up ! 


72  SONG  OF  THE  REDBREAST. 

Do  it,  do  it,  do  it!  Mr.  Green, 
Call  the  boys  and  yoke  the  team ! 

"  'Spring  is  come !  spring  is  come,  Deacon  Green  ! 

No  more  splutter,  no  more  spleen : 
Is  your  garden  ready  for  the  seed? 
Have  you  turned  the  furrow  on  the  glebe? 
Plow  it,  plow  it,  plow  it,  Mr.  Green, 

• 

Don't  you  see  the  poplars  growing  green  ? 

"  Spring  is  come  !  spring  is  come,  for  the  trees 

Bend  and  tremble  in  the  breeze  ; 
Deacon,  is  the  sugar-making  done  ? 
Guess  you'll  hardly  have  another  run ; 
Pack  your  buckets  !  do  it,  do  it ! 
Pack  your  buckets,  will  you  do  it? 

"  Spring  will  go,  spring  will  go,  Mr.  Green  ! 

Don't  be  idle  with  the  team ; 
If  you  have  a  harvest  you  must  sow  — 
Idlers  never  reap,  never  reap,  you  know  !  — 
Sow  it,  sow  it,  will  you  do  it  ? 
Sow  it,  deacon,  sow,  then  reap  it." 


THE  HOE. 

A      HOEING  in  the  cornfields  there  is  Joe, 
•*•        A  burly  fellow  who  keeps  his  acres 

Clear  of  the  weeds,  O  ho  ! 
And  he  hills  and  hills,  and  his  blade  with  good  earth 

fills, 
And  the  long  green  rows  file  away  where  he  tills ; 

And  he  sings,  "  Joe,  O  ho ! 
A  merry  fellow  was  he  who  made  the  hoe." 

And  the  blackbirds  chatter  nigh,  and  the  old  crows 

sit  and  caw, 
Clearly  outlaws  the  first  and  thieves  are  the  others 

By  all  codes  of  law ; 
But  the  scarecrow  there  and  the  long  twine  line  in 

the  air 
Farmer  Joe  has  made  them  believe  is  a  snare, 

And  he  sings,  "  Joe,  O  ho ! 
A  merry  fellow  was  he  who  made  the  hoe." 

And  a  goodly  thing  indeed  for  the  corn  is  the  hoe, 
And  a  crafty  trick  is  this  played  by  the  farmer 


74  THE  HOE. 

On  the  blackbird  and  crow ; 

And  the  tasseling  corn  waving  on  a  breezy  morn 
Would  drive  from  a  man  all  the  blues  and  the  imps 
forlorn  — 

And  he  sings,  "Joe,  O  ho  ! 
A  merry  fellow  was  he  who  made  the  hoe." 

"  I  know  there's  many  a  fellow  who  dodges  the  hoe,  — 
But  I  would   give  him   green  corn,  green  corn  from 
the  kettle 

In  July,  O  ho  ! 
I  would  give  him  brown  bread,  or  the  hominy  bowl 

instead, 
And  he  would  go  in  I  know,  and  not  a  dead-head." 

And  he  sings,  "  Joe,  O  ho  ! 
A  merry  fellow  was  he  who  made  the  hoe." 

O,  a  goodly  thing  indeed  for  the  corn  is  the  hoe, 
And  a  goodly  thing  is  the  corn  in  the  winter 

When  bloweth  the  snow  ; 

And  he  stirreth  the  earth  and  uprooteth  the  weeds, 
And  nurseth  the  blade  of  the  yellow  seeds, 

While  he  sings,  "Joe,  O  ho  ! 
A  merry  fellow  was  he  who  made  the  hoe." 


ECHO  LAKE. 

T  T  P,  up  in  a  mountainous  sag, 
^^     Where  the  tarrying  daybeams  lag, 
Reflects  a  small  sheet  'mong  the  firs 
Which  ripples  as  the  wind-gust  stirs  ; 
And  the  sounding  wavelets  beat 

On  the  moss-girted  shore, 
Beat,  splash,  and  retreat, 

As  they  lull  the  hill-tops  hoar. 

There  just  'neath  the  wing  of  the  cloud, 
Where  the  huddling  summits  crowd, 
She  sleeps  in  her  rock-ribbed  bed ; 
And  here  the  winding  stream  doth  head 
'Mong  the  jagged  cliffs  so  bare, 

And  the  leaping  cascades  pour 
Through  the  misty  air, 

With  the  ceaseless  thunder's  roar. 


76  ECHO  LAKE. 

And  back  from  the  hoary  old  forms, 
Buffeters  of  winds  and  storms, 
The  wandering  echoes  chime  a  lay, 
The  mimicking  horn  of  mountain  fay; 
Echoes  as  wild  and  as  gay 

As  a  silver-tongued  bell, 
That  awake  and  are  lost  away 

In  the  haze  of  the  dell. 

Here  trills  on  the  moonlit  eves, 
When  are  reddening  the  forest  leaves, 
The  wild  lay  of  the  sad  whip-poor-will 
On  the  flinty  brow  of  the  hill. 
There  alone  to  the  starlight  sings 

The  bewitchingest  lore, 
Like  the  wizard,  with  witch-elm  strings, 

All  bearded  and  hoar. 

And  the  pattering  feet  of  the  hare 
Startled  by  the  white  owl's  "  Tuwhit,"  there, 
Rustle  the  dead  leaves  in  her  flight; 
Then  the  horn  of  an  answering  sprite 


ECHO  LAKE.  77 

Brings  a  halt,  and  with  pricking  ears, 

In  the  mooniest  copse 
She  bends  her  white  foreleg  and  rears, 

Lists  a  moment  and  drops. 

• 

Whene'er  there's  a  voice  from  the  wood 
Of  the  bleating  doe  or  bird  at  brood, 
Answers  from  cliff  the  elfin's  horn, 
And  from  crag  to  crag  the  echoes  are  born  ; 
And  a  harp  in  the  waving  pine 

Song-touched  by  the  breeze, 
As  old  as  the  mossiest  shell  of  the  Nine, 

Sings  out  of  the  leaves. 

High,  high  in  the  bed  of  the  hills 
Is  the  lake,  and  the  cloud  distills 
Its  drops  in  the  form  of  mountain  dew ; 
And  crimson  and  violet  blue, 
Like  the  rainbow,  gild  the  cloud 

On  the  mountain  hoar, 
Edge  the  mantling  shroud 

Where  the  fog  creeps  up  the  shore. 


78  ECHO  LAKE. 

Here  with  the  first  dawn  of  the  day 
Starts  the  buck  from  the  birchen  spray, 
Where  reclined  on  his  couch  of  moss, 
And  with  supple  limbs  laid  across, 

• 

He  beholds  the  sun-reddened  crags, 

Snorts  and  tosses  his  horn  ; 
As  the  sun  streams  through  Chicora's  jags, 

Bounds  free  to  the  morn. 

Sounds  the  shrill  deer's-horn  'mong  the  hills, 
And  the  deep-tongued  blood-hound  yells  ; 
Through  the  barren  lofts  and  clefts 
The  clamorous  din  uplifts, 
And  the  glens  reecho  around, 

And  wild  crag  answers  crag, 
Where  chafed  is  the  worrying  hound 

By  the  flying  stag. 

On  'the  hill  the  white  mist-hoods  break  — 
Glows  below  the  burnished  lake  ; 
Lone  isles  which  the  wavelets  woo 
Grow   noisy  with  the  hunter's  halloo ; 


ECHO  LAKE.  79 

The  white  owl  from  her  brooding  nest 
Stares  and  winks  on  the  flying  rout, 
Spreads  her  wing  for  the  loftiest  crest, 

As  the  glen-crags  shout. 

» 

O'er  the  rocks  the  cataract  pours, 

The  mist  wreaths,  and  the  torrent  roars ; 

Above  where  the  step  of  the  hunter  treads 

Are  the  moss-fringed  glacier  beds, 

And  the  elfin  caves,  and  the  rocks 

Where  the  elf-horns  blow, 
And  wee  fairies  tend  the  wild  flocks 

And  harvest  the  snow. 

Where  alow  in  dell  breaks  the  lin, 
And  mists  lift  in  a  cloudlet  thin, 
The  dun  hoofs  by  the  fettering  brink 
Delay;  in  the  water  a  blink, 
And  the  crags  toss  a  wreath  of  smoke 

'Gainst  the  beetling  walls ; 
Again  are  a  hundred  echoes  woke 
«         And  the  wild  roe-buck  falls. 


8o  ECHO  LAKE. 

Lone  pool  in  the  fastness  set, 
Bright  pearl  in  a  girdle  of  jet, 
What  Peri's  sweet  tear  from  the  skies 
In  the  shell  of  an  Houri  here  lies  ? 
What  dreamless  people  here  keep 

The  live-long  night  and  day 
This  enchantment  on  the  deep  ? 

Ah,  who,  who  are  they? 

Lake  Echo  in  midst  of  the  hills, 
Where  the  sound  of  the  murmuring  rills 
Comes  up  as  a  psalm  'mong  the  firs ; 
Where  are  lays  in  the  frost-opening  burs, 
And  lyrics  more  weird  than  the  spell 

Of  the  wizard  forlorn  ; 
Who's  the  Master  ?   pray  do  us  tell, 

Who  soundeth  the  wild  cliff-horn  ? 


THE  BOBOLINK. 

i 
chee,  what   bobbing   sprite   in   speckled 

coat 

Who  seems  himself  in  very  song  to  float  ? 
Chee,  chee,  linkum,  linkum,  linkum  merrily, 
Ah,  how  his  throat  pours  that  liquid  ecstasy. 

First  in  the  hawthorn-bush  all  bridal  white, 
Then  'mong  the  clover-beds  bobs  this  wild  sprite; 
A  flood  of  gushing  joy  showered  from  his  wings 
As  up  he  mounts,  swims  through  the  air  and  sings ; 

Then  drops  as  some  sweet  song-sylph  from  the  cloud 
Among  the  lilies  with  heads  so  modest  bowed ; 
Catches  some  trill  to  fire  again  his  heart, 
Uplifts  his  plumes,  then  to  the  wing  doth  start. 

Chee,  chee,  linkum,  linkum,  linkum  merrily, 
And  so  he  floats  into  the  trysting-tree. 
6 


82  THE  BOBOLINK. 

Chee,  chee,   "Old  Mr.  Lincoln  where's  my  mate, 
The  little  gray  bird  building  a  nest  nigh  your  gate? 

"  We  were  to  have  a  wedding  here  to-day  ; 
She  promised  me  she  would  be  here  in  May. 
And  I  have  come  all  up  from  Delaware, 
The  gayest  fellow  that  trills  and  plumes  the  air. 

"Bob  White,  some  call  me  down  the'  Rapidan, 
And  Bobolink  with  eyes  in  a  blink,  who  a  fan 
Of  his  coat-tail  makes,  some  say,  but  I  shall  wed 
This  lady  of  russet  gown  among  the  flowers  bred. 

"  Chee,  chee,  O  here  she  comes  ;  I  prithee  thee, 
Good-morning  Miss,    and  now  my  gallantry 
Stands  pledged  to  you,  for  Master  Bobolink 
Could  not  be  caught  by  little  goldfinch's  wink. 

"  Chee,  chee,  link  us,  link  us,  link  us  merrily, 
Old  rhymer  dwelling  by  the  trysting  tree  ; 
Song-sparrows  shall  groomsman  and  bridesmaid  be, 
Chee,  chee,  Bob  White  now  rears  his  family." 


A  SUMMER'S  DAY. 


r  I  ^HE  fiery  sun  rides  high  at  noon, 

And  swelters  through  the  scorching  June 


Till  late  at  morn  these  summer  days 
The  white  fog  clouds  the  river's   maze, 
While  up  the  lane  the  milkmaid  strays, 
And  calls  the  heifer  from  the  graze. 
Each  hoof  is   tracked  along  the  dew 
On  clover's  green  and  violet's  blue, 
While  high  within  the  elm-tree's  top, 
The  jet-black  crow,  with  wing  at  lop, 
At  leisure  trims  herself,  and  .twists 
Her  curls,  half  hid  in  morning  mists. 
Busy  the  mowers  swing  their  scythes, 
And  ere  the  white  mists  upward  rise 
Long  swaths  upon  the  meadow  lie, 
And  hay-cocks  smoking  stand  near  by. 
A-stream  the  brown  duck  leads  her  troop, 


84  A  -SUMMER'S  DAY. 

From  where  the  dew-weighed  lilies  droop  ; 
While  from  the  hermit  thrush's  doors, 
A  very  flood  of  song  outpours. 
Now  from  the  valley  mists  uprise, 
And  brightly  glow  the  purple  skies  — 
Above  are  patches  white  and  gray, 
Huge  hills  and  headlands   built  of  spray; 
Smooth  amber  lakes,  and  fretted  shores, 
And  open  rifts  with  azure  doors  ; 
Calm  seas,  with  chalky  isles  begemmed 
And  by  a  silver  forest  hemmed. 
High  overhead  the  Day-god  rides  ; 
With  big  drops   oozing   down  our  sides, 
And  panting  for  some   cooling  breeze, 
We  seat  beneath  the  broad-leafed  trees ; 
Nor  longer  now  the  cattle  graze 
Where  pastures  slope  to  noon's  hot  blaze, 
But  'neath  those  huge  old  oaks  austere, 
Reclined,  is  seen  the  lolling  steer. 
Now  blows  a  zephyr  from  the  west, 
The  leaves  upturn,  which  lie  at  rest ; 
As  sweet  JSolus  tunes  his  stops, 
A  murmur  steals  through  all  the  tops; 


A  SUMMER'S  DAY.  85 

And  dancing  to  the  lute-like  stave 

Around  the  unshorn  meadows  wave; 

While,  like  a  rippling  silver  sea, 

The  green  wheat  crinkles  on  the  lea. 

In  shade  where  tinkling   brooklets  run, 

Deep  hidden  from  the  noonday  sun 

The  soft-tuned  •  harps  are  heard  around,        • 

As  reeds  blown  from  enchanted  ground. 

The  wings  of  myriad  insects  hum 

Vibrations  on  the  tympanum, 

While  hammers  loud  and  busily 

The   "  Moning  Gvvuna  " l  at  his  tree. 

Above,  the  purple  pigeon  sits 

And  coos,  while  tasking  all  his  wits 

The  great  white  owl  with  blinded  eye 

Looks  from  the  pine,  his  face  awry. 

The  droning  bee  and  butterfly 

Steal  to  the  forest's  edge,  near  by; 

And  there  the  partridge  trains  her  brood 

From  covert  shade  to  hunt  their  food. 

Mid  afternoon,  the  slanting  rays 
Are  seen  betwixt  the  thickening  haze  — 
1  An  Iroquois  name  for  the  golden-winged  woodpecker. 


86  A  SUMMER'S  DAY. 

The  thunder  caps  roll  up  the  west 

And  settle  on  the  mountain's  crest: 

A  long,  black  base  spreads  like  a  sea 

And  darkens  half  the  canopy ! 

Now  mutters  off  behind  the  hills 

Some  mighty  voice,  which  all  the  azure  fills  — 

Some  mighty  god  whose  battle-tone 

Shakes  all  the  air  beneath  his*  throne. 

A  flash  comes,  blinding  to  the  eye, 

From  that  black  sea  along  the  sky ; 

A  minute's  pause  and    loudly  booms 

The  bolt !  then  flash  again  the  glooms  — 

And  quicker  comes  the  answering  sound 

Like  volleys  on  a  battle-ground ! 

Slow  moves  the  storm's  advancing  train, 

And  white  beneath,  the  sheeted  rain 

Pours  down,  and  bridges  to  the  skies 

From  where  the  purple  hills  arise. 

Onward,  with  rush  of  wind,  now  sweep 

The  cohorts  of  the  airy  deep  ; 

With  flashing  manes  and  nostrils  wide, 

In  darkness  the  flying  archers  ride : 

Now  hides  the  landscape  from  our  view, 


A  SUMMER'S  DAY.  87 

The  pattering  drops  come  large  and  few, 
Till  full  the  welcome  flood  pours  down 
And  whitens  field  and  sombre  town. 
Full  soon  the  rushing  cohorts  pass, 
And  level  lies  the  unmown  grass ; 
The  gushing  rills  along  the  road, 
Day-born,  run  foaming  deep  and  broad  ; 
While  slow  the  turbid  waters  rise 
Where  'tween  the  banks  the  river  plies. 
Distant  the  peals  upon  the  ear;    * 
The  western  sky  grows  thin  and  clear, 
And  forth  once  more  the  red  sun  glows, 
The  lily  smiles,  and  laughs  the  rose. 

The  lengthened  shadows  trail 
Along  the  dreamy  vale  ; 

The  fast  descending  sun 
Now  sinks  behind  the  line  of  distant  hills  ; 
The  wood  grows  dusky,  where  the  tinkling  rills 

Come  down  the  mountains  dun; 
Where  in  the  beech-tree's  leafy  shade, 
With  greenest  roof  high  overlaid, 
Night's  silver  footfall's  heard 
At  closing  song  of  bird. 


88  A   SUMMER'S  DAY. 

* 
The  pomp  and  splendors  play 

Around  the  couch  of  Day. 

Fantastic  spreads  the  show  — 
Festoons  of  white,  empurpled  edging  round, 
And  sea-shell  tints  upon  a  sky-blue  ground  ; 

Fair  Dian,  with  her  bow 
That  hangs  upon  the  western  sky, 
Appears  in  robes  of  silver  dye, 
And  as  the  mists  unfurl, 
She  sails  her  skiff  of  pearl. 

Serene  the  argosies 

Glide  down  through  tranquil  seas 

With  sun-encrimsoned  sail  ; 
Above,  an  azure  dome  stands  arching  o'er, 
On  walls  of  sapphire,  and  with  amber  floor : 

Calm  sleeps  the  stormy  gale ; 
Along  those  burnished  deeps  that  lie 
Within  that  splendor-streaming  sky, 
Breezes  caressing  blow, 
And  waft  ships  to  and  fro. 

Now  comes  the  thickening  shade  t    • 
Of  Twilight — dusky  maid 


A  SUMMER'S  DAY.  89 

Of  the  advancing  Night ; 
The  crimson  fades,  dissolves  the  magic  spell; 
The  softest  tint  that  warms  the  rosy  shell 

Now  blends  with  silver  white  ; 
The  upper  clouds  grow  black  again, 
And  fade  the  ships  along  the  main ; 
The  sails  no  more  unfold, 
No  skiff  on  sea  of  gold. 

So  when  the  day  of  life 
Closes  on  all  earth's  strife, 

May  the  sweet  beams  of  hope 
Over  the  coming  clouds  a  halo  shed, 
And  beacon  lights  in  twilight  gleam  ahead. 

Not  left  in  doubt  to  grope, 
Unfriended  down  into  a  night 
Whose  curtains  have  no  fringe  of  light. 
As  day's  soft  eyelids  close, 
So  find  we  our  repose. 


H 


CAMEL'S  HUMP; 

OR,   THE   CROUCHING   LION.       • 

AIL    to    thee !    proud    monarch    of   evergreen 


mountains, 

Raised  aloft  and  afar  in  the  realm  of  the  clouds  ! 

Thus  high  embattled,  thy  bleak  forehead,  huge  and 
bare, 

Holds  the  same  stern  defiance  to  seasons  and  age. 

The  icicles'  beard,  or  the  drapery  of  spring, 

Scarce  changes  thee.  That  hoar  temple  looms  up 
as  of  old. 

The  bleak  air  of  thy  rugged  old  throne  sighs  ever 

Through  thy  beetling  crags  ;  ever  through  thy  cav- 
erns, 

Thy  corridors,  and  towers  aloft  in  the  sky. 

The  storm-cloud  here  garners  his  thunder  ;  and  Jove's 
bolts 

Rend  the  heavens  and  rattle  at  thy  front !  The 
lightnings 


CAMEL'S  HUMP.  9* 

Play  around  thee !      Yet,   unawed,  the  same  proud 

monarch, 
Thou   dost  hold   thy  bearings.     Aye,  dost  rock  the 

cradle 

Of  the  tempest    and   sport  with  the  Thunderer's  ar- 
rows. 
And  bright  Phoebus,  as  the  Earth  wheels  around  in 

her  car, 
First   and   last   beams  on  thy  brow,  gilds   thy  ducal 

palace 

With  the  tints  of  day,  while  beneath  thee  old  Night 
Holds  her  sable  dominion.      Favored  of  mountains  ! 
When,  with  heat  as  fervid  as  burns  in  the  tropics, 
We  are  sweltering  our  noons  in-doors  or  in  shade, 
Thou  art  regaling  with  cool   breezes  and  fountains  ; 
And  how  eager  we  gasp  for  the  breeze  !   at  the  brook 
We  most  lusciously  quaff,  as  it  steals  from  thy  sides, 
Down  the  winding  vale  and  over  the  parched  mead- 
ows ; 

And  the  spruces  and  hemlocks  ensandal  thy  feet 
Where    the   wild    flower    creepeth,    and    the   tangled 

thicket 
Echoes  to  the  sweet  minstrelsy  of  birds.     Aye,  up 


92  CAMEL'S  HUMP. 

To  the  verge  of  thy  bold  and  bare  summit  climbeth 
The  twin  flower;  the  violet  opes  her  frail  petals 
In  thy  stern  presence,  nursed   by  the   sunbeam   and 

cloud ; 

And  the  footfall  of  deer  and  timid  fawn,  straying 
Up  the  bold  steep  of  thy  old  dominion, 
Has    been    heard.      The    eagle's    wild   cry    has    re- 
sounded 
In   thy   halls  so   ancient;   here   hatched   the  young 

eaglets. 

Veteran  old !  long  hath  the  forest  primeval, 
That    adorned     thy    temples     in    the    days    of   thy 

youth, 
Been    uprooted ;     thy    forehead    left    bare    in    thy 

years ; 
Still   from   erst,  ever  from  the   days  so  ancient   and 

old, 
Thou    hast   loomed    'mid   the   clouds   in   the   Green 

Mountain  State, 

Emblem  of  Freedom,  the  Flag-staff  of  Liberty ! 
Beacon  of  light !     Ti.  Allen's  own  obelisk  ! 
Bearing  our  blazonry  and  fame  unto   Heaven! 
Lone  and  solitary  there   stands  thy  bold  visage, 


CAMEL'S  HUMP.  93 

Grim    above    Champlain !      Pile   on   pile   thy  dread 

palace 

Soars  into  the  limitless  ether!  and  topmost 
The  catamount  crouches,  just  springing  thy  summit, 
Defying  invasion  and  growling  —  "  Independence ! " 


THE    BLUEBIRD'S    FAREWELL. 


r  I  ^HE  butternuts  swung  from  their  leaves  and  fell 

Up  climbing  hill  and  down  the  hazy  dell ; 
The  frost-nipped  leaves  dropped  one  by  one 
In  the  slant  rays  of  an  October  sun  ; 


And  through  the  drowsy  stretch  of  landscape  view 

The  gathering  birds  on  wings  uneasy  flew ; 

The  tinkle  of  the  sheep-bell  on  the  down, 

The  fivulet  creeping  through  the  woodlands  brown, 

Gave  out  unusual  sounds  upon  the  ear, 

And  from  the  rocks  the  bleating  seemed  more  nean 

In  crimson  tints  the  maples  gaudy  spread 

On  slopes  above  the  sluggish  river's  bed ; 

The  russet  elms  along  the  stream  hung  low, 
And  in  half-naked  tops  loud  called  the  crow, 
Whose  note  was  answered  by  the  piping  jay 
On  age-shorn  top  of  limbless  tree  away. 


THE  BLUEBIRD'S  FAREWELL.  95 

Not  these  alone  had  warbling  hymns 
Among  the  bare  and  sober  limbs  ; 
Noonwhile  the  bluebird  sang  her  lay 
Upon  the  poplar's  topmost  spray, 

Where  erst  on  April's  sunny  morn 
The  first  note  of  the  Spring  was  born. 
"Farewell,"  said  she,  'tis  time  to  go, 
I  see  the  coming  of  the  snow. 

"I've  seen  the  thistle's  flying  down, 
The  hazel  in  her  scarlet  gown, 
The  yellow  asters  drooping  by 
The  rivulets  where  dead  violets  lie. 

"  Since  I  have  come  the  lily's  bloom 
And  garden  rose  have  lost  perfume  ; 
The  heaven-hued  flowers  are  harvested  — 
Why  stop  where  beauty  thus  hath  fled  ? 

"  Farewell,  I  seek  another  spring, 
Which  shall  to  me  new  beauty  bring; 
I  would  not  be  a  dweller  where 
No  flowers  exhale  to  scent  the  air." 


96  THE  BLUEBIRD'S  FAREWELL. 

Sweet  bird,  good  morrow;  and  when  I 
Like  thee  shall  see  the  lowering  sky, 
May  some  sweet  shore  budding  with  spring 
Invite  me  to  the  joyous  wing ; 

Some  haven,  'neath  the  open  rift 
Parting  the  clouds  that  wintry  drift, 
Regale  me  from  my  wanderings, 
While  my  freed  spirit  soars  and  sings. 


OVER  THE  HILLS. 

/'"AVER  the  hills,  over  the  hills, 

-^      Gayly  away,  away  we  hie; 
Over  the  hills,  over  the  hills, 

How  like  the  wild  free  bird  we  fly! 
O  like  the  wild  free  bird  away 

To  the  music  of  bells  moves  on  the  sleigh ; 
Over  the  hills,  over  the  hills, 

Our  merry  pole-steeds  snort  and  neigh. 

Merry  our  ride  over  the  snow, 
With  frosted  chin  and  tingling  ear, 

The  north  winds  blowing  as  we  go 
To  greet  us  with  a  good  New  Year. 

Over  the  hills,  over  the  hills, 
Gayly  away,  away  we  hie ; 

Over  the  hills,  over  the  hills, 

How  like  the  wild  free  bird  we  fly. 
7 


OVER   THE  HILLS. 

Bobbing  goes  round  the  chickadee, 

As  his  old  tree  loud  snaps  with  frost; 

* 
His  post-horn  goes  on  merrily, 

While  to  the  Northers  his  cap  is  tost 
O  like  the  wild  free  bird  away 

To  the  music  of  bells  moves  on  the  sleigh 
Over  the  hills,  over  the  hills, 

Our  merry  pole-steeds  snort  and  neigh. 

With  hoofs  that  dance  and  fetlocks  high 

We  skim  the  ground  so  gayly  O, 
With  tossing  manes  we  bid  good-by  — 

O  give  to  us  the  jolly  snow. 
Over  the  hills,  over  the  hills, 

Gayly  away,  away  we  hie  ; 
Over  the  hills,  over  the  hills, 

How  like  the  wild  free  bird  we  fly. 


THE  SNOW-STORM : 

A  SCENE   IN  THE   MOUNTAINS. 
I. 

f^V  ARK  and  drear  upon  the  hoary  mountain 
Hangs  the  winter's  heavy  laden  curtain  ; 
Loud  the  boisterous  winds  begin  to  rally, 
Moaning,  roaring  up  and  down  the  valley. 
All  the  thickening  heaps  a  tempest  token  — 
Wail  the  leafless  hill-tops  rift  and  broken ! 
And  the  elm-trees  bend  along  the  river, 
And  the  dead  leaves  on  the  aspens  quiver: 
Sobs  and  sighs  the  pine-tree  in  its  branches, 
Standing  where  the  icy  brooklet  dances  ; 
Rocks  and  creaks  the  maple,  regal  spreading 
His  gigantic  arms  the  ridge  embedding  ; 
Mark  the  wall  that  whitens  up  the  arching 
Where  the  shedding  clouds  are  onward  marching! 
Dim  the  woodlands  in  the  feathery  falling, 


100  THE  SNOW-STORM. 

Dim  the  hill-tops  in  the  gloom  appalling  ! 
Now  through  all  the  sky  the  snow-fall  sifteth, 
Deepens,  deepens  all  the  day,  then  drifteth 
Into  mighty  heaps  with  wildest  shrieking  — 
Tis  the  icy-bearded  Norther  speaking ! 
How  the  hollows  swell  into  a  level 
Over  all  the  landscape  in  his  revel ; 
How  he.  scatters  fences  in  his  frolic, 
Laughs  to  see  the  mischief  diabolic  ! 
"  Ho !  ho  ! "  shouts  he,  as  his  fingers  grapple 
In  the  forelocks  of  his  charger  dapple  — 
Forward  leans  in  stirrup,  plumed  and  hooded 
As  a  clouded  ridge  in  mid-sky  wooded  : 
From  the  streamy  nostrils  puffs  the   blinding 
Snow,  and  rolls  a  cloud  each  hoof  is  grinding. 
Thick  advancing  over  hill  and  hollow, 
All  his   grizzly  bearded  cohorts  follow; 
Whew !  whew  !  sing  the  bows  they  strain  for  battle, 
And  along  the  turf  the  fleet  hoofs  rattle. 
Far  before  the  white-winged  mists  are  driven, 
Marking  where  their  banners  stream  the  heaven  ! 
Early  in  the  day  the  bullock  worries 
Through  the  snow,  annoyed  by  gusts  and  flurries ; 
Points  his  horn,  and  shakes  his  head,  to  muster 


THE  SNOW-STORM.  IOI 

Courage  as  he  faces  storm  and  bluster. 
Slow  behind  the  snorting  heifer  wallows, 
And  the  lowing  cow  at  distance  follows, 
While  the  fleecy  flock  doth  partly  shelter 
By  the  hedge,  and  in  the  snow-bank  swelter; 
Eyes  half-shut,  their  nodding  heads  bedrizzen  — 
Not  for  hours  a  single  hoof  has  risen. 

ii. 

Homeward  bound,  across  yon  hoary  mountain 
Comes  a  stranger,  on  the  day  miscounting  : 
Youthful,  beautiful,  his  wife  \Vinfrada 
Rode  beside  him  with  her  blue-eyed  baby. 
All  day  long  it  thicker,  faster  snoweth, 
And  the  west  wind  strong  and  stronger  bloweth  ! 
Deep  and  deeper  piles  the  drift  —  intrenches 
By  the  wall  and  buries  up  the  fences  : 
Stump  and  log  sink  down,  and  ditch  and  gutter 
All  are  hid,  and  high  above  the  cutter 
Stand  the  white-heaped  banks  the  highway  block- 
ing ! 

Still  the  shouting  winds  keep  on  their  mocking — • 
Never  stop  the  feathery  snow-flakes  downward  fall' 
ing, 


102  THE  SNOW-STORM. 

So  thick  not  a  rod  is  seen.     Appalling 

This  to  one  among  the  hills  o'ertaken, 

Inn  nor  hamlet  there  on  which  to  reckon ! 

Now  the  air  grows  sharp  and  keen,  and  bluer 

Grow  the  skies  j  the  snow-flakes  small  and  fewer. 

Raw  and  chill  the  shifting  north  wind  searches  — 

Now  his  often-trusted  Morgan  lurches, 

Rallies,  trips  and  stumbles,  fetlock  weary, 

Toiling  on  that  mountain  dark  and  dreary. 

God  have  mercy !     What  is  in  the  morrow  1 

Night  is  coming  —  is  there  faith  to  borrow? 

Night  with  peril  to  these  peasant  people! 

Waxes  low  the  gray-veiled  sun ;  no  steeple 

Distant,  o'er  the  village-street  appeareth  ; 

Nor  a  fireside's  gleam  the  cold  night  cheereth. 

On  the  farmer  treads  the  snow,  and  urges 

His  tired  steed,  until  a  star  emerges 

Through  the  flying  clouds,  now  thin  and  faded ; 

But  his  mare  of  chestnut  brown  is  jaded  — 

Jaded  so  that  every  muscle  quivers  : 

Such  a  night,  in  such  a  plight !  how  shivers 

Poor  Winfrada  too  !     She  jerks  the  bridle 

As  the  farmer  treads.     Alas!  'tis  idle, 


THE  SNOW-STORM.  103 

For  no  longer  heeds  the  mare  the  rein.     Exhausted, 
Forward  plunges  she  so  trusty,  frosted 
White,  and  struggling  hard  she  sinks  unable 
Foot  to  gain  —  the  pride  of  Blakeley's  stable. 

'*  Courage  wife ! "  so  spoke  the  stalwart  farmer, 
With  a  breast  to  match  a  Vi-king's  armor ; 

"  Down  those  'gorges  black,  with  old  trunks  gnarly, 
Is  the  vale  —  the  snowy  vale  of  Arle  — 
Not  a  moment's  time  have  we   to  parley." 
And  he  wrapped  them  snug  in  his  buffalo, 
Summoned  forth   a   mighty   strength    against  the 

snow; 

Took  the  road  that  then  was  wild  and  new, 
After  kissing  child  and  mother  an  adieu.. 

in. 

As  it  chanced  a  hunter  came  next  morning 
On  his  rackets,  sounding  long  his  warning 
Bugle  on  the  hills  ;  the  hound  loud  baying, 
Roused  the  stag  in  Shamrock  wood  delaying; 
Echoes  cliff  to  cliff,  the  dog  pursuing 
Where  the  stag  leads  on,   the  vale  eschewing: 
When  at  noon  the  chase  turns  down  the  wjooded 


104  THE  SNOW-STORM. 

Steeps,  and  where  in  shade  the  white  owl  brooded, 
Here  the  blood-hound  halts,  refusing  more  to  follow, 
Though  he  wears  the  game-dog's  silver  collar. 
Neither  coaxing,  scolding,  changed  his  sullen  mood, 
For  it  seems  he  would  not  pass  old    Shrewsbury 

road. 
What  did  ail  the  dog,  the  hunter  vexed  himself  to 

know, 
And  he  walked  beside  him  to  the  turnpike  deep 

in  snow; 

Buried  there  they  found  the  stalwart  farmer, 
Clad  in  coat  of  blue  —  the  ancient  manner. 


IDA  LENORE. 

'"T"*HE  lost  Lenore  —  the  beautiful  Lenore  — 

The  angel-resembling  Lenore  —  the  child 
Of  high-born  birth,  but  lost  out  of  earth 
A  day  unfortunate  to  me.     The  mild, 
The  affectionate  child  of  incomparable  worth, 
Who  came  in,  one  night,  at  our  door, 
The  lovable  Ida  Lenore. 

The    sweet-tempered   .Lenore  —  gone    back  unto 

heaven ; 

And  a  darkness  left  in  the  house  evermore ; 
Left  us,  with  our  hands  imploring  her  stay  — 

Fled  out  of  a  land  where  the  feet  grow  sore, 
To  the  crimson  and  golden  flower-land  away, 
This  lovable  child  Lenore, 
Who  went  one  night  from  our  door. 

The  light-hearted  Lenore,  alas,  I  still 

Remember,  just  as  she  toddled  my  floor; 


ro6  IDA  LENORE. 

With  her  arms  like  a  cherub's,  so  white  and  bare, 
With  a  chin  and  a  cheek  which  the  dimples  ran 

o'er, 

And  her  wavy  tresses  of  flaxen  hair, 
This  lovable  child  Lenore, 
Who  went  one  night  from  our  door. 

O,  that  it  should  be  so  !  that  the  hand 

Of  an  evil  distemper  fall  on  her : 
That  the  angels  should  love  her  more  than  we: 

That  I  should  be  made  Heaven's  almoner, 
While  up  through  the  flickering  starry  sea, 
The  hovering  pinions  are  more 
Than  the  flowers  the  broad  earth  o'er. 

But  I  know  it  is  well  with  the  child   Lenore, 

For  none  ever  looked  on  her  but  to  lore, 

And  none  ever  thought  of  her  as  of  earth,  — 

But  I  comforted  myself  that  my  darling,  my  dove, 
Who  dropped  from  the  spheres  with  these  marks 

of  her  birth, 

Would  longer  await  at  my  door, 
The  beautiful  Ida  Lenore. 


IDA  LENORE.  107 

The  Lost  Lenore,  the  beautiful  Lenore! 
With  the  angelhood  at  the  rosy  gates 
By  cerulean  Edens  her  form  I  see : 

And  what  if  her  heaven-life  antedates 
On  the  dial  awhile !  in  the  Great  to  Be 
We  shall  find  the  Ida  Lenore, 
Our  beloved  and  our  darling  evermore. 


LAURA    O'   THE    HILL. 

T     IKE  dew  on  daisy,  the  fall  of  her  feet  ; 
— '    Her  voice  than  the  song  of  the  thrush  more 

sweet ; 

As  apple-blossoms  her  breath  in  the  air, 
With  a  shy  dimpled  chin  and  nut-brown  hair. 

Her  eye  hath  the  touch  of  the  violet  in  spring, 
Which  blossometh  blue  while  the  cuckoos  sing; 
Her  teeth  are  whiter  than  ocean-washed  pearls, 
And  her  snowy  neck  all  wavy  with  curls. 

The  chickens  come  at  the  sound  of  her  call, 
The  sparrow  that  nests  low  under  the  wall ; 
The  lambs  frisk  gayly  by  hillock  and  brink, 
Where  she  comes  to  gather  the  red  moss-pink. 

The  joy  of  a  sunbeam  plays  by  her  mouth, 
And  a  heart  she  hath  and  it  knows  not  a  drouth ; 


LAURA    0'    THE   HILL.  109 

While  her  plaided  gown  is  of  fine  dimity, 
Which  her  fingers  spun  o'  the  distaff  tree. 

As   the  blush  of  the  peach  is  the  rouge  on  her 

cheeks, 

And  but  honey  drops  in  the  words  she  speaks, 
And  Laura  o'  the  glen  in  her  morning  sixteen 
Is  the  pride  of  the  hill-side  cottage  I  ween. 


ALICE   BY    THE    BROOK. 

T  T  OW  often  by  the  summer  brook 
•"•-*-      Of  old  I  used  to  ride, 
When  Alice,  with  her  happy  look, 
Was  sitting  by  my  side. 

I  never  thought  of  beauty  more, 
Nor  thought  hers  could  be  less ; 

I  felt  the  charms  she  had  in  store 
Would  cheer  a  wilderness. 

A  little  roguish  was  her  eye, 
Whene'er  she  stole  my  whip ; 

With  witching  dimples  lying  by 
The  smile  upon  her  lip. 

Her  lashes,  shaded  eyes  of  blue, 

Which  had  a  mellow  light; 
Her  cheeks  were  fresh  with  rose-bud  hue, 

Her  neck  was  snowy  white. 


* 

ALICE  BY  THE  BROOK.  Ill 

As  gay  as  magpie  chatted  she  — 

Now  pouting  at  a  pun, 
Then  laughing  at  our  pleasantry, 

A  little  overdone. 

She  laughed  right  out  in  jolly  glee, 

As  down  the  parson's  lane 
I  turned,  and  hinted  jovially, 

She'd  better  change  her  name. 

'Twas  many,  many  years  ago, 

That  Alice  rode  with  me  — 
Her  virgin  heart  as  pure  as  snow, 

Her  spirits  wild  and  free. 

I  went  away,  far  o'er  the  sea, 

And  Alice  went  to  school ; 
I  fear  she  thought  too  much  of  me  I 

Alas!  I  was  a  fool. 

A  hectic  stole  upon  her  cheek  — 

I  never  saw  her  more  ; 
The  words  she  last  was  heard  to  speak : 

"Tell  him  I'm  gone  before." 


112  ALICE  BY  THE  BROOK. 

The  birds  have  many  seasons  flown 

As  winter  stole  apace, 
But  have  returned  with  merry  tone 

When  nature  changed  her  face. 

The  flowers  have  blossomed  in  the  spring, 

By  every  way-side  nook ; 
But  never  do  we  hear  a  thing 

Of  Alice  by  the  brook. 


THE    BABY    BOY. 

'X/'OU  crowing  fellow,  well  's  the  day 

That  brought  you  here,  although  you  rule 
The  roost ;  and  have  a  gawkish  way 
Of  kissing,  always  with  a  drool. 

You  come  to  quarters  not  o'errich, 

But  by  your  pranks  —  your  quip  and  quirk, 

Should  think  you  had  some  way  in  which 
To  make  a  live,  by  shift  or  shirk. 

A  heap  of  fat  your  chubby  leg, 

A  plump,  full  cheek,  and  both  your  eyes 
Are  full  the  rogue  —  they  tease  and  beg, 

Both  thumbs  just  taken  from  the  pies. 

The  very  idol  of  the  house  — 

Your  sister's  birdie,  mother's  bird; 
And  at  your  call  we  all  must  touse, 

For  little  darling  must  be  heard. 
8 


114  THE  BABY  BOY. 

O,  well  's  the  day  you  came,  my  boy, 
The  comfort  of  your  mother's  heart ; 

And  long  the  day  you  give  her  joy, 
And  long  before  you  cause  a  smart. 


FOR  WHAT  YOU  ARE,  ISABEL. 

1  "'OR  what  you  are,  my  Isabel, 

For  what  you  are  —  not  for  your  dress, 
Or  any  little  show  of  vanity, 

I  link  you  with  my  happiness ; 
For  what  you  are,  nor  be  above 

Your  kitchen  work,  nor  washing  board, 
My  Isabel ;  this  nicknack  love, 

Don't  blush,  is  cheap  upon  my  word. 

You  would  not  know  me  in  ycfur  suit 

So  soiled  ?  ah,  ha !  I  see  the  why ! 
For  fear  I'd  think  the  less  of  you  — 

'Tis  not  the  suit,  but  that  soft  eye, 
That  sunny  cheer  within  your  face, 

My  Isabel,  that  pleases  me ; 
Your  winsome  voice  and  winning  grace, 

Your  heart  clothed  in  its  purity. 


Il6  FOR   WHAT  YOU  ARE,  ISABEL. 

So  do  not  shun  me,  Isabel, 

Because  you  meet  me  in  attire 
Toil-soiled  and  at  the  washing  board: 

Than  maiden  born  of  monarch  sire 
And  vain,  I'd  rather  have  you  thus  — 

I'm  sure  you'd  be  no  cheat  or  scold, 
Go  waltz,   or  dance  a  cotillon's  fuss, 

And  serve  us  to  a  dinner  cold-. 


LILLIE. 

\T  7E  loved  her  as  we  saw  her  come 

And  go  each  summer  day, 
Across  the  meadow  to  the  road, 

And  then  in  quiet  way 
Trip  onward  to  the  village  school ; 

We  loved  her  modest  look, 
Her  large  bright  eye,  her  charming  face, 

The  graceful   step  she  took. 

She  seemed  to  have  a  soul  ufllike 

The  rest  who  loitered   there  — 
Some  strange  attraction  all  could  feel, 

Some  charm  in  all  the  air 
Wherever  her  sweet  presence  was, 

As  if  some  angel  child, 
Lost  out  of  heaven  had  dropped  to  earth, 

And  by  life's  way-side  smiled. 


Il8  LILLIE. 

She  had  at  home  the  gentlest  care, 

All  watched  her  anxiously  — 
No  Eden  blossom  e'er  was  nursed 

More   fond  and  tenderly  ; 
And  not  a  single  child  at  school, 

With  wild  flower  from  the  glen, 
Who  would  not  pass  it  round  to  her, 

And  felt  more  happy  then. 

One  day  we  missed  her  —  clear,  bright  day 

As  e'er  the  summer  brought ; 
A  slight  misgiving  then  we  had, 

But  gave  no  further  thought : 
But  when  the  evening  came,  alas  ! 

It  brought  to  us  the  word 
That  Lillie  was  no  more  —  she  fled 

Away   a  singing  bird. 

We  laid  her  by  her  mother's  side 

Within  the  quiet  glen  ; 
And  over  them  doth  hang  the  trees 

Where  sits  and  sings  the  wren  ; 


'TIS  SPOKEN,  119 

When  comes  the  bluebird  in  the  spring, 

And  blithesome  cuckoos  woo, 
There  fragrant  violets  and  the  heath 

Steal  from  the  beds  of  snow. 


'TIS   SPOKEN. 

TT  7HEREVER  roves  my  wayward  heart, 

It  will  come  back  to  thee,  to  thee. 
'Tis  spoken  —  and  for  aye  we  part, 
Yet  you  cannot  be  less  to  me. 


To  know  how  truly,  dearly  prized, 
No  lip  of  mine  to  you  shall  break  — 

Thine  angel,  I  will  watch,  disguised, 
But  living  only  for  thy  sake. 


THE  FRIENDS  THAT  WE  HAVE  MET. 

r  I  ""HE  friends  that  we  have  met 

So  oft  with  greetings  kind; 
The  partings  of  regret 

We  frequent  call  to  mind : 
Friends  of  absence,  days  and  hours 
So  free  of  care,  so  gay  with  flowers. 

For  some  we  look  in  vain, 
Who  were  of  our  true  band ; 

With  tears  and  heartfelt  pain 
We  took  their  parting  hand. 

Ah !  when  will  they  come  back, 
The  friends  for  whom  we  yearn  ? 

O,  may  they  never  lack 

A  hearth  by  which  to  warm 

Be  life's  rough  road  walked  o'er 
With  steady  pace  and  cheer, 


THE  FRIENDS   THAT  WE  HAVE  MET.     121 

And  as  we  near  the  shore 
Disperse  each  doubt  and  fear. 

The  friends  that  we  have  met, 

So  true,  so  dear  and  kind; 
The  partings  of  regret 

Shall  bring  each  oft  to  mind: 
Friends  of  absence,  friends  of  hours 
So  free  of  care,  so  green  with  flowers. 


THE  MOTHER'S  GRIEF. 

a  couch  a  pale  one  sleeping, 
Mutters  wildly  in  her  dreams  — 
By  her  side  a  mother  weeping, 

.Anxious  asks  me  what  it  means. 
These  are  moments  we  are  weak  — — 
Ah !  to  her  how  could  I  speak  ? 

"  Is  she  dying  ?   is   she  dying  ?  " 

Asks  the  mother  in  her  woe; 
"  She  is  dying !  she  is  dying ! 
O,  my  Father  !   is  it  so  ?  " 
How  the  bitter  tear-drops   flow, 
And   she  wrings  her  hands  in  woe. 

There  her  child,   a   pallid  creature, 

Gasping  slowly  for  her  breath  ; 
Coldness  coming  o'er  each  feature, 

And  the  sunken  hues  of  death. 
"  O,  my  house  is  dark  with  death  ! 
In  my  house,"  she  saith,  "  is  death." 


THE  MOTHER'S  GRIEF.  123 

"  She  is  dying !   she  is  dying ! 

O,  my  Saviour,  can  it  be  ? " 
She  is  lying  —  she  is  lying 

There  a  corpse,  her  spirit  free  ! 
Yes,  with  lips  apart  and  cold  — 
"  Now  her  arms  you'll  gently  fold  ? 

And  she  kissed  her  marble  forehead, 
Closed  her  lips  that  lay  apart ; 

Dressed  herself  in  crape  and  sorrowed, 

But  as  one  with  Christian  heart. 
"  Lonely  now,"  she  said,   "  'twill   be, 

But  my  Father'll  call  for   me." 

Then  she  lay  her  where  the  blossom 

Of  the  daffodil  was  seen, 
Where  the  rose  and  meadow-saffron 

Grew  upon  a  plat  of  green. 
There  she  lay  her  in  her  white  — 
Laid  her  daughter  from  her   sight. 


ELLULE. 

T    HEAR  the  shells  of  the  western  sea  — 

The  plaint  of  her  out  under  the  arch 
Of  the  furthermost  sky.     Ellule 
With  her  harp  alone  on  that  loneliest  shore, 
Who  calls  for  me  as  the  sun   goes  down, 
As  the  rosy  sea  grows  purple  and  brown; 
"  Eulalia,"  the   distant  sound 

Like  a  note  half  lost  in  the  quavering  sea; 
"  Eulalia,"  saith  the  sky  around  — 
A  sound  I  follow,  but  no  one  see. 

Out  under  that  arch  alone  she  walks 
Demure  and  sad  by  the  western  sea, 
She  culls  a  wreath   from  the  goldy  locks 
And  crops  the   ice-plant  bare  of  its  blooms: 
There  desolate  awaits  by  the  shore 
The  sound  of  the  tides  and  dipping  oar, 
And  there  on  the  floating   isles  around 
The   icy  domes  on  that  spectral  sea! 


ELLULE.  i? 

While  ever  "  Eulalia,"  is  a  sound 
I  follow,  but  no  one  see. 

As  deepens  the  shade  and  the  shores  grow  dim, 
Out  under  that  furthermost   sky, 
As  hazes  thicker  the  horizon's  rim 
And  flickers  here  and  there  a  star, 
All  white  in  her  garments  to  and  fro, 
Spectral  and  cold  as  the  moony  snow, 
She  walketh  the  shadowy  ground  — 
And  all  that  shadowy  sky  around, 

And  all  that  night- wrapped  western  sea, 
Utters  a  strange  articulate  sound 

That  seems  to  say,  "  O,  come  to  me ! 

"  Come  to  the  land  by  the  western  sea, 
The  nethermost  sea  in  the  furthermost  sky  — 
Eulalia  to  the  wandering  Ellule  — 
I  pray  once  more  to  meet, with  you 
Who  art  so  far  and  yet  so  near  to  me. 
To  go  to  you,  it  never  can  be !  " 
For  so  I  hear  the  palpitant  air 

Which  calleth  all  night  so  loud  to  me : 


126  ELLULE. 

I  wait  and  sorrow  and  still  prepare 
To  follow  the  voice  that  calls  to  me. 

How  lost,  how  lone  I  wander  at  times 

Out  under  that  arch  —  that  further  dome, 

Where  loud  on  the  sea  the  gnome-bell  chimes, 

And  call,  and  call  in  vain,  "  Ellule." 

I  wander  here  and  wander  there, 

Ellule  is  my  only  prayer; 

I  wait  and  watch  and  linger  around 

The  long,  dark  night  by  this  uttermost  sea, 
But  no  one  find ;  only  a  sound 

Calls  here  and  there,  "  O,  come  to  me !  " 

And  yet  a  presence  is  everywhere  there, 
Which  seemeth  about  and  near  to  me  — 
A  spectral  form  in  the  mystical  air 
Which  I  seem  to  know,  but  cannot  see. 
I  clasp  with  my  hands  about  the  space 
As  if  taking  her  to  my  lost  embrace ; 
But  thinner  than  the  thinnest  air 
The  resistance  that  meeteth  my  hand  ; 
Then  further  seemeth  the  sound  to  me, 


ELLULE.  127 

As  wanders  an  echo  over  the  land  — 
A  sound  I  follow,  but  no  one  see. 

Mystical,  strange,  this  sound  by  the  sea;! 
What  meaneth  the  cry  addressed  so  loud, 
So  long,  in  tender  refrains  to  me  ? 
And  out  that  dark  dominion  of  Night? 
A  veil,  a  mist  lies  under  that  sky, 
.And  none  can  tell  the  reason  why  — 
A  spell,  a  charm  is  somewhere  there, 

For  none  come  off  of  the  spectral  sea  — 
Only  a  voice  in  the  palpitant  air, 

Which  ever  calleth,  "O,  come  to  me!" 


HETTIE  AT  THE  SPINNING-WHEEL. 


sits  Hettie  at  the  spinning-wheel, 
Just  about  so  old  she's  been  for  years; 
And,  as  she  trundles  with  toe  and  heel, 

The  picture  of  industry  appears  ; 
She  sits  and  trundles  at  the  spinning-wheel, 
Then  whirls  away  at  the  old  clock-reel. 

She  dips  in  haste  at  the  hard  gourd  shell, 
And  at  the  distaff  snatches  fast  j 

Of  her  youthful  days  you'll  hear  her  tell, 
And  she  never  thinks  her  May-day  past. 

She  sits  and  trundles  at  the  spinning-wheel, 

Then  whirls  away  at  the  old  clock-reel. 

Through  her  ringers  runs  the  silken  thread, 
And  over  the  wire  to  fill  her  spool  ; 

Thus  she  works  her  flax  with  a  skillful  tread, 
And  her  fingers  have  a  cunning  pull. 

She  sits  and  trundles  at  the  spinning-wheel, 

Then  whirls  away  at  the  old  clock-reel. 


HETTIE  AT  THE  SPINNING-WHEEL.        129 

The  old  clock-reel  tolls  off  her  knots, 

Which  she  ties  thinking  a  knot  makes  a  wife. 

And  this  is  one  of  her  whispered  thoughts, 
"  I  would  'twere  a  knot  which  is  tied  for  life." 

She  sits  and  trundles  the  spinning-wheel, 

Then  whirls  away  at  the  old  clock-reel. 

In  a  half-playful  tone  she  sometimes  speaks, 
And  hints  of  a  thing  that  belongs  to  the  past  j 

A  home  runs  on  in  her  fancy's  freaks, 
And  a  different  lot  with  another  cast 

She  sits  and  trundles  at  the  spinning-wheel, 

Then  whirls  away  at  the  old  clock-reel. 

She  says  things  have  a  strange  way  now, 
And  few  of  the  girls  know  how  to  work; 

The  boys  despise  th.e  good  old  plow 

But  puff  at  the  pipe  much  like  a  Turk. 

She  sits  and  trundles  at  the  spinning-wheel, 

Then  whirls  away  at  the  old  clock-reel. 

She's  poorly  pleased  with  modern  things, 
Such  shifts  got  up  for  laziness ; 
9 


130       HETTIE  AT  THE  SPINNING-WHEEL. 

Expects  we'll  travel  yet  by  wings, 
But  lie  a-bed  to  eat  and  dress. 
She  sits  and  trundles  at  the  spinning-wheel, 
Then  whirls  away  at  the  old  clock- reel. 

A  maiden  of  three-score  years  she  sits  ; 

The  old  muslin  cap  with  its  frill  on  her  head ; 
By  sunlight  spins  and  by  candle-light  knits, 

Till  the  old  and  the  young  are  all  in  bed. 
She  sits  and  trundles  at  the  spinning-wheel, 
Then  whirls  away  at  the  old  clock-reel. 


HEIGH,  HO,  HUM. 

T  T  EIGH,  ho,  hum  ! "  said  a  bowed  old  man, 

Plodding  with  his  cane  and  little  dog 
One  day  over  the  dusky  pike 
From  town  :  "  Ho,  hum,  -a  weary  jog !  " 


We  knew  the  gait  and  the  yellow  cur, 
For  grandfather  Colt  often  came  that  way; 

He  had  a  rheumatic  hip  which  gave 
A  hitch,  and  a  frequent  alack  a  da  da ! 

Just  off  the  road  under  a  tree 

In  my  father's  lot,  he  sat  him  down 

(His  little  dog  stretching  by  his  side), 
In  old  cock-hat  and  surtout  of  brown. 

His  locks  were  white,  and  on  his  brow 

Now  wrinkled  with  care,  some  straggling  lay  ; 

He  wiped  the  sweat  trickling  down  his  cheek 
With  his  hand,  saying,  "  Alack  a  da  da ! " 


132  HEIGH,  HO,  HUM. 

Each  time  the  dog  looks  wistfully  up 

In  the  old  man's  face,  till  the  black  flies'  buzz 

He    hears,   when   he   turns,    snaps   and    lays    him 

down, 
And  the  old  man  groans  "Lack  a  day  me  suz!" 

"  Ho,  hum !  well,  curly,"  he  says  to  his  dog, 
"We'll  plod  again."     He  pulls  on  his  staff, 
And  with  "  Alack  a  .da  da  me  suz  — 
This  road  is  Iqnger  than  once  by  half." 

Ho,  hum !  the  old  man  and  his  little  dog 
Come  up  the  road  no  longer,  nor  down; 

Alack!  his  faltering  step  fell  out, 

And  they  buried  him  in  Duxbury  town. 


THE  OLD   HOME  COTTAGE: 

A    MONO  New  England's  northern  hills, 
•*•  The  old  home  cottage  stands  : 

The  moss  is  seen  upon  its  sills, 

The  dust  is  on  its  jambs; 


A  quaint  old  house  of  square-hewn  blocks 

With  woodbine  on  its  eaves  ; 
An  oak  beside  the  gate,  where  rocks 

The  hang-bird  'mong  its  leaves. 

O,  to  it  cling  old  mem'ries  dear, 
Dear  bonds  but  death  can  free ; 

We  left  it  with  a  blinding  tear 
And  in  deep  agony  ; 

From  ruin,  Time,  this  threshold  spare ; 

Buffet  with  tender  blow; 
I  would  not  see  the  grass  grow  where 

Our  walk  wound  long  ago. 


134  THE  OLD  HOME   COTTAGE. 

Bright  glowed  the  yule-log's  winter  flame, 
And  cheerful  rose  our  songs  ; 

Old  house  to  me  you  are  the  same 
In  all  neglects  and  wrongs. 

O,  keep  for  me  my  vacant  chair, 

My  friend  in  days  of  cheer ; 
Alack,  what  if  I  were  but  there, 

How  would  old  things  appear  ? 
I 

Should  I  yet  meet  a  sister's  smile, 
Her  arms  flung  out  to  me  ? 

Plods  on  old  Roan  his  weary  mile 
At  tug  and  whiffletree? 

My  dog,  sleeps  he  upon  the  rug? 

Keeps  kitty  up  her  purr  ? 
I  see  you  all  ensconced  so  snug, 

Myself  a  wanderer. 

Ah,  much  I  fear  to  look  on  what 
Old  Time  has  done  for  you ! 

I  dread  to  see  that  lowly  spot 
Beside  the  weeping  yew: 


THE  OLD  HOME  COTTAGE.  135 

I've  wished  to  come  for  mother's  sake  — 

Her  loss  how  can  I  bear  ! 
O,  oft  she's  watched  till  morning's  break 

At  duty  and  in  prayer. 

Mementos  are  among  the  trees 

Which  hide  the  garden  walks; 
A  tender  sound  is  in  the  breeze 

That  waves  the  mullein  stalks ; 

I 

And  underneath  the  apple-tree, 

Beside  the  sedgy  brook, 
Were  faces  which  once  met  with  me, 

On  which  I  shall   not  look. 

The  garlands  gathered  in  the  grove, 

By  angel  fingers  twined,  — 
Alas !  they  wither  as  I  rove  — 

My  father  grows  more  blind. 

The  spider  weaves  her  cunning  web 

About  my  old  bedroom  ; 
And  on  and  on  the   life  tides  ebb 

Which  bear  us  to  our  doom. 


136  THE  OLD  HOME   COTTAGE. 

And  when  again,  O!  when  shall  I 
Sit  round  that  welcome  hearth? 

And  who  remains  that  said  "  Good-by,' 
And  who  are  not  of  earth  ? 

Among  New  England's  northern  hills, 

The  old  home  cottage  stands  ; 
The  moss  is  seen  upon  its  sills, 

The  dust  is  on  its  jambs  ; 
I 

The  low-roofed  cot,  with  barns  apart ; 

Wood-shed  and  big  wood-pile  ; 
O,  ever  clings  my  yearning  heart 

To  every  beam  and  tile. 


ORCAS  — YOUTH. 

O  PRING  lapped  the  opening  flowers,  the  gay  young 

blossoms 
Nursed  on  the  banks  of  rippling  brooks  and  rivers, 

When  Orcas,  but  a  youthful  boy,  idly  rambled 

I 
To  hear  the  wood-birds  'mong  the  chestnut  branches. 

Idly  he  wandered,  gazing  o'er  great  acres, 
Shadowed,  where    through  the  leaves  gleamed  dew- 
eyed  morning. 

A  wreath  entwined  the  youthful  brow  of  Orcas ; 
In  all  his  veins  was  rosiness  and   beauty, 
And  bright  his  eye.     Upon  his  snow-white  forehead 
The  play  of  joy  —  the  very  joy  of  transport  • 
A  plump  round  cheek,  a  chin  with  dimples 
Chasing  in  laughter  as  on  stream  the  ripples: 
Bosom  upswelling  and  jocund  with  gladness, 
A  gladness  ringing   after  all   his  footsteps. 
And  so  his   lightsome  feet  led  to  the  river 
Flower-fringed,  blossoming  with  clover  and  the  dai- 
sies. 


138  ORCAS—  YOUTH. 

The  violets,  purple  and  white  and  blue  and  golden, 
Fragrantly  touched  his  springy  balls  and  hollows, 
Which  nimbly  left  their  press  and   sported  onward. 
"  Spring-time    and   mirth,"    he   sings,    "  with   cuckoo 

sing  cuckoo ; 
Snow- drops,    cowslips,    and    humming-birds,  by   cool 

Meander ; 

Give  wings  to  joy,  dilate  the  heart  with  laughter  — 
The  stags  'mong  pimpernels  before  me  scamper, 
I  love  the  voice  of  winds  and  warbling  bluebirds." 
And  so  his  guileless  feet  leapt  on,  to  wanton 
Along  the  marge,  the  while  caressing  breezes 
Did  whisper  in  his  curls ;  "  The  brooks  are  purling," 
Saith  the  breeze,  "  and  songs  in  trees  now  budding  ; 
From  old  dead  leaves  come  up  star-eyed  claytonias, 
And  here  jonquils  and  robins  have  their  vespers. 
Wander  with  me  the  while  the  sun  climbs  noonward, 
And  dew-dripping  honeysuckles   sparkle  in  the  sun- 
beams." 

And  so  they  frolicked,  and  his  yellow  tresses 
Streamed   backward,  flowing  o'er  his  dimpled  shoul- 
ders, 
As  reveled  the  warm  sunlight  on  his  bosom. 


ORCAS—  YOUTH.  139 

A  thousand  insects  hummed,  murmured  Meander, 
And  all  the  air  beat  palpitant  with  music. 
Reddened  his  cheeks,  and  fair  as  crimsom  roses 
The  tint  upon  his  beardless  face  of  boyhood. 
The  grasses  crinkled,  where  the  breeze  ran  laughing, 
And  in  the  sunbeam,  clad  in  coat  of  velvet, 
Floated  the  yellow  butterfly,  the  restless 
Frolicker  'mong  the  beds  of  mint  and  crocus. 
The  cuckoos  sung  within  the  leafing  maples, 
"We  cuckoos  sing,"  say  they,  "while  harebells  blos- 
som ; 

We  hunt  the  furzy  hillocks,  grown  to  mosses, 
And  by  the  bickering  brook,  for  withered   lichens 
To  build  in  greenest  place  our  wind-rocked  dwellings : 
Come  Youth  and  pluck  the  scented  amaryllis, 
The  pale  wood-sorrel  growing  by  the  hazels, 
And  braid  them  into  wreaths  with  ragged  robins : 
Make  heart  for  mirth !  let's  revel  in  our  laughter ! 
The  woods  are  rid  of  ugly  sprite  and  goblin, 
And  left  alone  to  rosy-ankled  Naiads." 
The  gray- winged  warbler  trilled  the  merry  carol, 
"  The  rime  is  off  the  tree,  and  in  the  garden 
The  pea  grows  green:  the  daffodils  are  budding, 


140  ORCAS  —  YOUTH. 

Thick  in  the  meadows  blossom  dandelions. 

In  wanton  curls  the  romping  maids  play  truant, 

And  white-wooled   lambs  the  grass-green  knolls  are 

nibbling : 

It  is  a  rosy  time,  this  freak  of  boyhood, 
For  only  morn  comes  shining  through  the  eyelids ; 
Come  revel  now,  for  youth  is  but  a  frolic, 
And  laughter  but  an  echo  out  of  heaven  ! " 
And  to  him  sang  the  lily  by  the  runlet, 
"  Gome   see,   fair   Youth,  the    scented   wreaths  that 

crown  me  ; 

Purple  and  white  and   yellow  are  my  garlands  ; 
I  drink  the  sparkling  dew  in  morning  sunshine, 
And  paint  my   petals  from  the  dipping  rainbow. 
Sky-born,  they  say,  the  sons  of  fair-eyed  Hebe, 
Who  fills  with  rosy  wine   the  silver  goblet, 
Of  which  they  drink  who  drink  the  laughing  nectar : 
We  may  be  gay,   for  only  mirth  drowns   sorrow, 
And  only  out  of  heaven  the   sunshine   cometh." 
Thus  did  he  go  with  breeze  and  bird  and  blossom, 
Sporting  upon   the  lawn,  the  noon  of  spring-time; 
Nor  saw  the  thorny  briers  by  the  road  side  — 
Life's  toil  and  grief  and  journey  to  repentance. 


SONG  OF  JEPHTHAH'S   DAUGHTER. 

/^\     MOUNTAINS,  sigh  and  pity  me! 

Cedars  of  Lebanon  and  ye  poplars,  be  sad : 
Two  months  I  bewail  my  virginity ; 

I  go  up  and  down  the  hills  in  my  weeds  clad : 
I  and  my  fellows  with  the  aloe  bough, 
For  on  my  head  is  my  father's  vow. 

"O  clouds,  bearing  the  tears  of  the  skies, 

Pity  me  !   coronal   stars  and   thou  fair  moon  — 
Two  months,  and  a  burnt  sacrifice 
Jephthah  offers  his  child  in  her  virgin  bloom  — 
But  my  father's  tears  are  sadder  than  mine, 
He  cannot  go  back,  'tis  a  seal  divine. 

"  Come  night,  with  the  requiem  of  winds, 

With  the  hoary  harps  that  sing  the  hours  to  rest, 
With  the  oaten  pipe  which  calls  the  hinds, 
Brings  the  bulbul  and  wood-dove  to  their  nest : 


142  SONG  OF  JEPHTHAH'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  and  my  fellows  with  aloe  bough, 
Walk  up  and  down  the  mountain  now. 

*  Favored  of  Judah,  pity  me  ! 

Sitting  in  peace  by  your  doors  through  years  of 

j°y> 

Remember  her  who  brought  victory, 
When  Ammon's  hosts  by  Jabbok  did  destroy: 
In  fear  our  enemies  stood  —  they  fled 
Before  the  Lord  when  Jephthah  led. 

"He  vowed  a  vow  unto  our  God, 

Who   heard  :     He   came   down   in  wroth :   they 

were  as  chaff 
In  his  presence  —  they  fled  from  his  rod. 

Be  merry  now  —  clap  your  hands  and   let  your 

children  laugh  : 

Go  up,  possess  their  lands  with  cheer : 
'Tis  meet  that  I  go  to  my  bier. 

"This  aloe  is  my  bridal  wreath, — 

In  pride  do  I  wear  it  upon  my  brow,  — 
And  though  my  bridegroom  be  but   Death, 

'Twere  better  than  that  my  father  break  his  vow. 


SONG  OF  JEPHTHAITS  DAUGHTER.         143 

So  take  your  harps  and  sing  for  me, 
And  how  your  country  was  made  free." 

They  sing  their  songs  for  the  Jewish  maid, 
By  Jordan  pluck  the  blooming  daffodils ; 

A  wreath  of  violets  and  jonquils  braid, 

And  weave  her  a  crown  of  choicest  asphodels; 
Two  moons  in  JebePs  breezing  air 

They  braid  white  lilies  in  her  hair. 

• 

The  third,  she  returns  to  Mizpah's  gate  — 

More  just  than  Dido,  mounts  the  funeral  pyre, 
And  dies  a  martyr  to  the  state. 

For  her  do  Judah's  singers  wake  the  lyre, 
Her  virgins  come  four  times  a  year, 
And  strew  with  flowers  her  sepulchre. 


THE  SHADOW  LAND. 

A  T  7  E  sleep,  aye  sleep  the  passing  years 
The  moss  upon  our  urn  appears, 
Lichens  of  sorrow  ; 
The  birds  return,  the  seasons  go, 
But  ah,  to  sleep,  to  sleep  and  know 
Not  of  the  morrow  ! 

The  hither  land  is  full  of  woe  — 
The  thither  land,  O  who  doth  know? 

That  long  forever. 
The  foot  that  dips  that  water  cold, 
Ah !  feels  but  once  that  icy  hold  — 

Comes  back  —  no,  never ! 

We  pass  into  the  shadow  land, 

With  severed  ties  of  heart  and  hand  — 

'Mong  tombs  engraven : 
Mists  and  shadows!  O  shadows  dark  — 


THE  SHADOW  LAND:  145 

O  valley  cold  —  O,  wandering  bark 
And  distant  haven  — 

The  golden  haven  o'er  the  sea  — 
Sweet  haven  in  the  Great  to  Be 

Across  the  river. 
O  silent,  silent,  silent  land; 
O  river  dark !  where  is  the  hand 

That  leads  us  ever? 

O  shadow  land  !   O  morning  land, 
Forever  there  the  angels  stand, 

And  Jesus,  Jesus ! 
Across  that  river,  on  that  strand, 
Waits  forever  a  gentle  hand, 

And  to  receive  us. 


THE  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  ANGEL. 


'TT^HE  clock  has  plodded  along  till  five 

In  an  autumn  day  of  the  year, 
The  strolling  bee  returns  to  his  hive 
From  the  pastures  brown  and  sere, 
The  frost  has  nipt  the  vines  on  the  wall, 
And  the  dead  leaves  begin  to  fall. 

In-doors  the  grandma  sits  in  her  chair 
With  the  wrinkled  lines  on  her  face, 

And  bleached  into  white  her  dark  brown  hair 
While  walks,  with  a  faltering  pace, 

The  floor  of  the  hall,  her  other  half, 

Low  bent  and  leaning  upon  his  staff. 

Clearing  the  table,  in  middle  life, 

Is  a  woman  genteel  and  fair, 
And  a  hale  looking  man  who  calls  her  wife 

Sits  near.     A  happy  pair, 


THE  OLD  MAN  AND   THE  ANGEL.          147 

Discoursing  together  of  the  sermon  read, 
And  then  of  their  cousins  this  Sunday  wed. 

A  chap  not  two,  with  eyes  of  blue, 

And  abundance  of  golden  curls, 
There  creeps  and  plays  with  his  grandma's  shoe ; 

While  two  little  pink-dressed  girls 
A  psalm-book  unto  the  old  man  bring, 
And  clamor  aloud  to  hear  him  sing. 

With  trembling  voice,  he  pitches  and  sings 

The  olden  tune  of  Mear  — 
The  grandma  joins,  like  a  harp  with  strings 

Half  broken,  and  drops  a  tear : 
They  both  do  seem,  in  their  whitened  locks, 
Like  sheaves  of  grain  in  the  autumn  shocks. 

The  children  gaze  in  the  old  man's  eye, 

As  he  brushes  a  tear  away, 
And  ask,  "  What  makes  grandpapa  cry  ?  " 

And  he  says,  "I  remember  the  day 
It  was  said  to  me,  '  Be  of  good  cheer '  — 
And    the    time    draws    near,   the    end    of   the 
year. " 


148         THE  OLD  MAN  AND   THE  ANGEL. 

For  devotion  soon  they  gather  round, 

And  from  its  place  on  the  shelf 
Is  brought  the  Bible,  in  sheepskin  bound, 

Nigh  as  old  as  the  sire  himself. 
His  spectacles  placed,  he  reads  from  Isaiah, 
Then  kneels  at  the  altar  and  offers  prayer. 

The  shadows  of  evening  round  them  fall, 
And  the  moonbeams  steal  on  the  floor ; 

'Tis  hushed  within  and  asleep  are  all, 
The  child  and  the  man  of  four-score. 

An  angel  comes  in  the  shape  of  Death, 

With  golden  harp  and  an  amaranth  wreath, 

And  whispers  a  word  in  the  sleeper's  ear  — 
O'er  his  face  comes  a  beaming  ray, 

And  his  lips  say  softly,  "  The  end  of  the  year  : " 
And  he  breathed  his  last  as  he   lay. 

They  woke  within  at  the  break  of  dawn, 

But  the  good  old  man  and  the  angel  were  gone. 


LILLIAN. 

T    AM  pining  for  the   April  flowers, 

Sweet  anemones  in   glenwood  growing ; 
Cuckoo  flowers  and  the  yellow  cowslips 

Where  the  murmuring  brooklet  on  is  flowing : 

Waiting  for  the  hawthorn's  milk-white  petal  — 
For  the  modest  violets,  white  and  purple  — 

For  the  coming  of  the  gay  spring  beauty, 
And  the  blossoming  of  the  trailing  myrtle: 

For  I  know  that  when  the  low  arbutus 

From  among  the  dead  leaves  upward  creepeth, 

Lillian  goeth :   gently  as  a  whisper 

Would  she  pass  and  lie  where  May-rose  weep- 
eth. 

Favored,  if  it  were  a  cloudless  morning, 
So  to  look  on  buds  of  infinite  number, 

Freshening  from  the  dreary  lap  of  Winter 
Into  blossom  :   then  to  softly  slumber. 


ISO  LILLIAN. 

Lay  me  by  the  drooping  wild  azalia 
And  forget-me-not:   that  earthly  losses, 

Shadows,  yield  to  thoughts  of  hope  and  heaven  ; 
Where  the  sunlight  falls  on  dewy  mosses. 

Ah!  my  heart  is  almost  weary  waiting, 

Longing  like  the  wood-doe  for  the  summer; 

When  she  croppeth  by  the  little  runlet, 

Looking  for  the  snow-drop,  spring's  first  comer. 

Make  of  these  my  garlands ;  lay  the  hawthorn 
Blossom,  when  my  head  is  pillowed,  by  it : 

Bear  me  then  away  at  fall  of  evening, 
Leaving  me  to  sleep  in  quiet. 


XT  TITHIN  our  holier  musings,  how  the  Earth 

Grows    fruitful   with   her  teachings    and  her 
.     texts 

That  God  is  only  good.     When  flushes  morn 
Upon  the  dewy  lap  of  spring,  go  forth 
And  walk  the  mead,  fast  putting  on  its  robes 
Of  velvet  green,  and  see  the  footsteps  that 
Unheard  imprint  the  mould.     List  to  the  wings 
That  brood  invisible  above,  where  goeth  on 
The  mighty  change  that  brings  the  bud  and  leaf, 
And  out  of  mouldering  cerements  doth  cause 
To  quicken  beauty  in  her  thousand  forms. 
The  varied  tints  that  crop  from  out  the  clefts 
Of  rocks,  that  steal  up  through  the  old  dead  leaves, 
As  spread  the  fragrant  flowers  forth  to  the  sun, 
Tell  us  how  silent  nature  buildeth  up  her  works, 
And  yet  how  beautiful;  how  from  the  dearth 
Of  the  encrystalled  granite,  seed  takes  root 


152  ANASTASIA. 

And  germinates,  and  giveth  bloom  and  fruit; 

How  to  the  blight  is  wed  the  living  green. 

Where  spreads  the  verdant  canopy  of  woods, 

With  their  innumerable  swelling   buds  called  forth 

As  morning  rays  quiver  along   the  hills, 

O  Father!   these  attest  thy  goodness;   these 

But  teach  the  lessons  of  Divinity. 

This  is  thy  temple  !   and  the  singing  birds, 

The  choristers,  whose  warbling*  voices  swell 

T,  o  heaven  thy  praise.     Thy  prophets  here,  the  oaks, 

That  yearly  cast  aside  their  garments  worn, 

To  be  reclothed;  who  coronate  themselves 

In  each  returning  spring  with  wreaths  of  hope. 

To  worship  here  is  to  acknowledge  faith 

In  the  great  plan  that  orders  from  the  dead 

The  living  forms.     Where  on  the  stone's  cold  cheek 

Is  nursed  the  flower,  how  beautiful  awakes 

The  living  symbol,  and  progressing  up  ! 

Where  falls  the  acorn,  springs  not  up  the  tree, 

When  in  full  time  the  swollen  casement  bursts? 

O,  if  a  sparrow  falls  not  to  the  ground 

Unseen  by  Him  who  careth  for  us  all, 

Why  doubt,  but  that  some  hand  will  roll  away 


ANASTASIA.  1 53 

The  sfone,  and  light  dawn  on  thy  sepulchre 

Behold  how  through   creation's  varied  works 

'Tis  ever  change  —  a  transit  to  new  life  — 

An  ever-opening  gate  through  which  the  dead 

Pass  on  into  the  startling  infinite! 

Who  keeps  the  worm  that  sleeps  in  chrysalis? 

On  all  the  multitudinous  pages   traced 

With  nature's  record,  is  there  found  so  much 

As  one  small  atom  lost  ?     To  change  hath  been 

To  live  !  death,  richest  gain !   who  dares 

Believe  that  man,  the  crowning  work,    God's  own 

Similitude,  ascends  the  summit  but 

To  fall?   and  fall,  if  fall  we  do,  more   low 

Than  all  that  hold  the  downward  scale  ?   for  if, 

Alas,    to  die   is  "  not  to  be,"  O,  then  how  mock 

The  trees  that  stand  through  the  long  centuries 

The  day-dream  of  our  life  !     The  thick-ribbed  rocks 

Cradled  in  the  first  dawn,  when  moored  the  world 

From  chaos,  laugh  at  our  frail  destiny, 

And    sweep,   with    little    change,    the    innumerable 

years. 

\Vhere  all  thy  works  but  teach  from  living  texts 
The  lessons  of  our  resurrection,   O, 


154  ANASTASIA. 

Our  Father,  grant  to  us  the  faith  that   lights 

With  shining  countenance  the  vault  where  lies 

The  veil,  and  folds  the  shroud  of  the  dead  Christ 

The  inurned  dead,  with  the  arisen  life. 

What  night  is  that  on  all  that  flood  of  time  — 

That  river  of  blackness  o'erswollen  with  the  tears 

Which  water  all  the  ages  past  —  if  day 

Dawn  not  within  the  sleeper's  narrow  house  ? 

Scarce  grows  a  sod,  but  underneath  it  lies 

The  dust  of  one  who  once  did  walk  the  earth  — 

Was  loved  and  wept :    ah,  who  can  count  them  up  1 

What  cities  have  been  filled  —  emptied  and  filled 

A  thousand  times  ;  and  now  are  empty  as 

The  hollow  sound  of  the  great  charnel  house, 

Where  perished  long  ago  their  very  dust. 

Nay,  empires  themselves  no  doubt  have  flourished  for 

Their  day ;  so  swallowed  in  oblivion's  wave, 

No  record  or  memorial  speaks  that  they 

Have  been !     O,  how  the  centuries  crowd  up 

The  dark  long  vistas,  back  in  shadow  and  pall ! 

The  woods,  the  sea,  are  sepulchres,  no  less 

Than  the  green  cemeteries  by  the  great 

Highways  along  the  avenues  of  mart. 


ANASTASIA.  155 

If  with  the  morn  we  take  our  flight,  the  dead 

Are  there,   and,  where  night  folds  the  western  sea, 

They  wrap  them  for  their  couch  alike  to   sleep. 

And  so  through  ages  hath  this  round  of  toil 

And  sleep  gone  on,  successive  wave  on  wave, 

Lapsing  into  a  night  which  lies  beyond. 

If  they  be  garnered  to  forgetfulness 

Who  sleep,  how  foolish  is  this   day-dream  man 

Calls  life  !     Gifted   to   know,  to  feel  the  woe 

Which  death,  and  death  alone  reserves ;   to   stand 

Upon   a  brink  dark  with  amazing   fears, 

And   realizing  all,  yet,  helpless  as  the  drift  log 

In  current,  go  (we  down  oblivion's  tide 

To  dust  and  ashes,  and  abodes  as  mute 

As  the  dull  clod  of  which  we  make  our  bed ! 

To  be  more  blank  than  that  on  which  our  foot 

Hath  plodded  in  our  daily  round  of  care  ! 

The  stars  to  shine,  the  moon,  but  not  unto 

That  cheerless  atmosphere. 

The  universe  a  blank! 

No  more  aspires  that  soul !   that  mind  —  erased 
Of  memories,  affections,  all   sweet  loves 
And  hopes !     No  better  thou  than  is  the  worm 


156^  ANASTASIA. 

That  sates  his  maw  upon  thy  vitals,  crawl? 
Unheeded  to  prey  in  daintiness  upon 
Thy  cheek!   aye,  such  art  thou,  if  death  shall  blot 
But  once  thy  thinking  soul :   the  grave  but  bar 
Thy  thoughts :   if  they  do  sleep,  who  from  the  earth's 
First  dawn  went  down   into  the  shadows  and 
Unto  those  hidden  gates. 

Comfort  thyself,  that,  when 
The  mortal   part  is  as  a  garment   laid 
Aside,  thou  shalt  but  pass,  with  all  thy  thoughts, 
Ethereal  robed,  unto  more   fruitful  deeds. 
Companion  not  of  worms,  as  is  thy  flesh, 
But  of  the  pure  to  whom  thy  better*  gifts 
Aspire :   removed  one  circle  nearer  to 
Thy  God,   and  nearer  to  the  light  that  shines 
Renewing  on,  through  the   perpetual  years. 


SHERIDAN'S   ADDRESS. 

XT ORTHMEN,  roll  the  battle-drum ! 
•^  *    The  clarion  bugle  blow! 
The  old  Flag  unfurl  to  the  breeze, 
And  on  to  the  banquet  of  blood ! 
Be  princes,  and  feast  with  great  deeds: 
Your  foeman  has  chosen  the  steeds  — 
And  the  charger  you  ride  is  Death! 
They  br^and  us  "  Cowards !  "  aha ! 
When  we  ride  they  shall  see  whose  cheek 
Turns  first  all  bloodless  and  pale! 

Rue,  rue  to  them  was  the  day 
They  lifted  the  sword  to  strike 
At  Liberty  and  the  mother-land. 
A  rouser  to  the  old  Flag! 
The  flag  of  their  own  brave  sires ! 
A  bumper  to  the  "Mudsills"  now  — 
For  the  towering  shield  of  the  Stars 


158  SHERIDAN'S  ADDRESS. 

Rolls  onward !  on,  the  bayonets  — 
Onward  forever  ! "  the  shout 
Of  the  phalanx  in  the  storm  of  death  — 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  hurrah! 

Halberds  for  their  haughty  crests ! 
With  us  it  is  blow  for  blow : 
Our  blades  are  ready  to  drink, 
And  we  like  the  liquor  of  heroes : 
Give  us  the  flagons  blood  red, 
And  see  who  pluckiest  shall  drink ! 
Louder  yet  your  slogan  —  hurrah! 
For  the  warriors  who  watch  by  the  fanes 
Sacred  with  the  fame  of  great  men  — 
Advance,  the  Yankee  Land  Guards, 
With  the  eagle  on  wing  with  her  stars! 

The  battle !  we  like  it :  the  road 
Memorable  with  great  foot-prints, 
Constellated  with  Glory  ! 
With  our  brawny  sinews  we  come 
Fired  hot  by  the  embers  of  wrath  — 
Leaving  the  axe  and  the  anvil. 


SHERIDAN'S  ADDRESS.  159 

We  come  to  the  strife  of  swords : 
To  a  feast  of  flashing  steel : 
To  the  mighty  battle  of  shields : 
And  we  win  Victory  or  Death  ! 
To  battle!  hurrah,  hurrah! 

The  fast-flashing  lightning,  the  roll 

Of  the  thunder,  thick  smoke,  iron  hail, 

And  the  infantry  rattle, 

The  music  and  play  of  our  pastimes : 

Terrible,  terrible,  terrible, 

The  feast  and  the  music! 

Bloody,  bloody,  the  road 

Waving  with  the  Banners  of  Glory! 

But  onward  —  hurrah  for  the  charge! 

On  into  the  breach  of  death ! 

Hurrah,  hurrah,  hurrah! 


i6o 


FORWARD,  VERMONT. 

T  7ERMONTERS  ho!  the  drummers  call ; 

From  glen  and  highland  come,  come  all ' 
Dixie's  land  shows  a  haughty  foe  — 
To  arms !  bold  men,  the  bugles  blow. 
Rally,  the  Highland  Plumes, 
Rally,  Green  Mountain  Boys, 

In  your  coats  of  blue 

To  your  country  true, 
By  the  side  of  the  brave  Illinois. 

Arm  you  in  steel 

And  put  spurs   to  the  heel : 
Forward,  Vermont !     Forward 
To  the  smoke  of  the  battle's  brunt, 
To  the  hottest  fight  of  the  front, 
Forward,  Vermont  —  the  boys  of  Vermont. 

See,  see  !   the  banner  from  afar  — 
The  flashing  steel  and  Northern  Star ! 
Hail  to  the  chiefs!  hail  to  the  pine  — 


FORWARD,    VERMONT.  l6l 

The  wheaten  sheaf  and  uddered  kine. 
Ha !  'tis  the  shield  of  Vermont, 
And  the  Green  Mountain  Boys, 

In  their  coats  of  blue 

To  the  country  true, 
On  the  march  for  old  Jeffs  corduroys : 

The  Union  boys  ! 

O,  up  our  banner,  boys: 
With  old  Bay  State,  forward 
To  the  place  of  the  battle's  brunt, 
To  the  hottest  fight  of  the  front, 
Forward,   Vermont  —  the  boys  of  Vermont! 

Buckeyes  and  Coons,  Rhoda  and  York, 

Dutchmen,  Mainemen,  the  Macs  from  Cork, 

Are  hoisting,  ho!  the  Stripes  and    Stars, 

Are  forming  with  their  loud  huzzas. 

O  rally  !   stalwart  men  — 

For  the  Green  Mountain  Boys, 

In  their  coats  of  blue 

To  the  country  true, 
Are  the  men  for  the  drill  and  deploys: 

Up  with  the  Flag, 

Our  shout  from  mountain  crag! 
ii 


162  FORWARD,    VERMONT. 

And  with  Vermont,  forward 

To  the  place  of  the  battle's  brunt, 

To  the  hottest  fight  of  the  front, 

With  old  Vermont  —  the  boys  of  Vermont. 

From  crest  and  cliff,  from  rock  and  tree, 
Unfolds  the  standard  of  the  free  : 
We  swear  that  treason  shall  go  down  — 
We  rally  from  each  mountain  town, 

For  Freedom  is  our  own. 

We  are  the  sturdy  boys, 

In  our  coats  of  blue 

To  the  country  true, 
In  whose  hand  the  keen  steel  is  in  poise : 

The  Stripes  and  Stars! 

The  Union  aye,  and  all  its  bars  — 
Hurra,  hurra  !  forward 
To  the  place  of  the  battle's  brunt, 
To  the  hottest  fight  of  the  front, 
With  old  Vermont  —  the  boys  of  Vermont ! 


THE  ENSIGN  OF  WARWICK. 

'Tr^HE  smoke  of  battle  settled  from  the  field, 

Where   Warwick   checked  our  firm   advancing 

line; 

And  with  Vermont's  proud  boys  there  lay  a  shield,  — 
The  Stars  and  Stripes,  the  Stag's  Head*  and  the 
Pine. 

And  where  was  seen  the  reek  and  wreck  of  all 
That  strife,  the  bearer  of  his  country's  sign 

Lay  bleeding ;  stoutly  had  he  led  the  call, 

And  stalwart  stood,  waving  his  Mountain  Pine. 

But  in  that  fire-hurled  hail,  when  thundered  loud 
The  rifle-pits  that  fronted  all  our  line, 

His  stalwart  form  went  down,  as  when  a  cloud, 
With  sudden  flash,  by  lightning  scathes  the  pine. 

"  Comrade,"  said  he,  "  I  have  a  wound :  to  you 
I  trust  a  message:  put  your  hand  in  mine. 


1 64  THE  ENSIGN  OF  WARWICK. 

I  have  a  mother :  tell  her  \  was  true 
To  our  Old  Flag,  Vermont,  her  Star  and   Pine; 

* 

"That  where  at  night  we  beat  the  tattoo  drum, 

From  her  prayer-book  I've  treasured  every  line ; 
But  that  on  me  the  brunt  of  war  has  come, 
Yet  all  is  well  —  a  country's  gift  is  mine. 

"A  sister, 'too,  I  have  at  home  —  a  sweet, 

Good  child ;  she  plants  for  me  the  myrtle  vine : 

But  tell  her,  soldier,  that  we  shall  not  meet  — 
I  led  at  Warwick,  with  the  Star  and  Pine! 

"A  brother  —  his  a  heart  with  kindness  stored  — 
Follows  the  plough  and  yards  the  milking  kine; 

He  hardly  ever  took  my  father's  sword 

And  belt,  or  plumed  his  cap  with  sprig  of  Pine. 

"Unlike  myself,  no  quickstep  stirred  his  feet, 

Nor  burned  his  soul  for  martial  deeds,  like  mine ; 

He  wished  for  quiet:  I,  from  boyhood,  beat 

The  drum,  and  plumed  my  cap  with  sprig  of  Pine. 


THE  ENSIGN  OF  WARWICK.  165 

"Tell  him  our  flag  gleams  through  the  smoke  of 

war  — 
The    flag    with    which    Vermont    did    meet    Bur- 

goyne; 
That  I  have  borne  aloft  the  single  Star  — 

That  Treason's  rag  was  shadowed  by  the  Pine. 

"That  when  the  roll  beats  through  the  Northern 
glen 

Again,  to  spurn  the  plough,  nor  heed  the  kine  — 
The  fame  of  old  Vermont  exacts  her  men ; 

Still  Allen's  banner  rears  the  green  old  Pine! 

"  And,  comrade,  to  another  say,  '  Farewell ! ' 
(A  wife's  fond  love,  perhaps,  is  luck  of  thine.) 

For-  her  I  fear  —  I  fear  to  have  you  tell 
How  that  I  fell  bearing  the  Star  and  Pine; 

"But  break  it  to  her  tenderly,  and  say, — 

'The  foe  was   dealt   with  sore  —  our  charge  was 
fine!' 

And  tell  her  I  was  proud  to  bear,  that  day, 
The  Union  Flag,  the  Stag's  Head  and  the  Pinel 


1 66  THE  ENSIGN  OF  WARWICK. 

"Comrade,  to  me  the  sun  shall  bring  no  morn; 

The  bugle's  call  disturb  no  ear  of  mine ; 
But  on,  ay,  on  —  the  foe  shall  never  scorn 

The  Lincoln  Flag  of  Stars,  Vermont's  Green  Pine." 


THE  MONITOR. 

r  I  "HE  mists  lay  off  Potomac's  channel, 

And  from  the  Rip  Raps  frowned  the  can- 
non: 

At  Newport  News  the  beat  of  drum 
Called  to  the  drill ;  and  all  was  dumb 
Within  the  bay,  where  dipped  the  stannel 
Above  the  war-ships'  rippling  pennon. 

A  puff  of  smoke  slow  rose  to  landward, 
Behind  where  Sewall's  ramparts  echo; 
A  tall,  black  stack  rose  up  to  view, 
The  vapors  crowding  from  each  flue; 
And  from  the  low,  black  deck  a  standard 
Of  death  —  the  Serpent  and  Palmetto. 

A  glance  cast  to  that  ocean  wonder 
Brought  up  the  sailors,  idly  dozing; 
A  shout,  "  To  post,  boys,  every  one ! " 


168  THE  MONITOR. 

And  then  was  heard  the  signal  gun! 
Columbiads  rolled  their  awful  thunder  — 
But  on  she  came  full  bent  on  closing. 

The  shot  hailed  down  in  storm  terrific, 
From  belching  throats  of  eighty-pounders ; 
The  smoke  rolled  black  above  the  ships 
Where  growled  those  dogs  with  feverish  lips; 
But  with  a  monster  shape,  horrific, 
Still  on  she  comes,  nor  reels,  nor  flounders. 

Broadsides  of  bomb,  of  globe,  and  grapnel, 
Upon  her  steel-clad  beak  she  tosses ; 
And  salt-sea  foam  she  plunges  through, 
The  very  devil's  work  to  do  : 
So  well  conceived  of  Lee  and  Tatnall, 
Old  Nick  should  take  them  in  for  bosses. 

With  port-holes  closed,  silent  and  sullen, 

She  nears,  and  nears  with  boding  meaning; 

When  with  a  crash  the  oaken  strand 

Is  reft,  and  stove  the  Cumberland. 

Far  o'er  the  sea  is  heard  a  knelling, 

As  down  she  goes,  her  flag  still  streaming. 


THE  MONITOR.  169 

And  hearts  shall  beat  and  beat  on  ever, 
Remembering  those  beneath  that  water  — 
Those  brave  and  bold  and  noble  tars, 
Who  stood  and  perished  by  the  Stars. 
Fighting,  dying,  and  yielding  never  — 
Their  death-cold  eyes  strained  on  the  mortar! 

The  work  is  short  which  rolls  the  Congress 
In  drifting  smoke  o'er  land  and  ocean; 
And  dark  the  night  with  doubts  and  fears, 
As  the  red  sun  now  disappears ; 
And  Union  hearts  that  beat  with  fondness, 
Now  watch  the  Minnesota's  motion. 

All  eyes  are  turned  and  hearts  are  aching 

To  see  what  stalwart  ship  can  aid  her ; 

For  beached  is  she,  and  morning  light 

Will  tell  the  dreaded  foe  her  plight: 

The  morning  mists  at  sea  are  breaking, 

And  there  she  stands,  —  but  who  her  neighbor? 

Hath  night  born  to  the  deep  a  Proteus, 
Wisdom-endowed,  to  guard  the  channel? 


17°  THE  MONITOR. 

Or  paddles  there  the  Sea-King's  hulk, 
Which  looks  scarce  more  than  human  bulk? 
Proteus  or  the  black  craft  from  Erebus, 
It  seems  as  lively  as  a  spaniel. 

Slow  puff  the  stacks  of  that  black  dragon, 

With  steel-clad  prow  up  channel  headed: 

At  easy  range  she  opens  port, 

When  belches  forth  that  floating  fort : 

Proteus  now  tosses  up  his  flagon, 

And  saith,  "Is  this  the  monster  dreaded?" 

Thanks  to  the  brows  of  great  Ericsson, 

Who  sends  Neptune  a  greater  wonder, 

The  Monitor.     Well  christened,  he, 

The  dreaded  Mentor  of  the  sea : 

'Tis  gained,  'tis  gained,  and  glory's  niche  is  won ! 

For  nations  at  this  keel  shall  ponder ! 

Thunders  the  night-black  hulk  of  Norfolk  — 
And  thunders  back  the  dreadful  Mentor ! 
No  fight  like  this  hath  witnessed  sea  — 
The  roar,  the  roll  and  revelry  ! 


THE  MONITOR.  171 

Five  hours,  long  hours,  is  heard  the  war-shock, 
The  voice  of  Proteus  growing  stentor. 

Slowly  withdraws  the  ship  defiant, 

When  proved  that  she  had  caught  a  Tartar ; 

To  mend  her  leaks  and  broken  joint, 

Is  tugged  beyond  old  Sewall's  Point, 

While  Mentor  stands,  an  ocean  giant, 

To  still  defend  the  Union  Charter. 

Slowly  the  smoke  clears  off  the  channel, 

The  cloud  that  wraps  the  Sea-King  frowning ; 

Slowly  the  wits  of  men  come  back 

From  gazing  on  those  frigates  black; 

Looking  on  ships  of  oaken  panel, 

They  say,  "But  palaces  these  for  drowning!  ' 


COMING  FROM  THE  WARS. 

T  'M  coming  home,  Laura, 

Coming  from  the  Southern  wars; 
Sun-bronzed  and  worn,  Laura, 
But  one  hand  and  with  six  scars: 
I'm  coming  home,  Laura, 

Coming  home  to  you 
And  my  two  bright  boys  — 
Coming  in  my  coat  of  blue. 

I've  waited  long,  Laura, 
Thinking  oft  of  you,  so  true  \ 

And  thought  sometimes,  Laura, 
I  ne'er  should  come  back  to  you. 
I'm  coming,  etc. 

We've  kept  the  flag,  Laura, 

Floating  through  the  storm  and  strife 
But  our  best  men,  Laura, 

Ne'er  come  back  to  see  a  wife. 
I'm  coming,  etc. 


COMING  FROM  THE   WARS.  173 

They  dropped  out  ranks,  Laura, 

On  the  march  and  in  the  drill; 
And  they  dropped  out,  Laura, 
In  that  rain  of  lead  and  shell. 
Not  coming  home,  Laura, 

As  I  come  to  you ; 
Not  to  their  bright  boys, 
To  .no  wife,  in  coat  of  blue. 

One  hand  is  left,  Laura, 

And  the  war  is  over  now: 
They  could  not  stand,  Laura, 
When  they  met  the  men  in  blue. 
I'm  coming  home,  Laura, 

Coming  home  to  you 
And  my  two  bright  boys  — 
Coming  in  my  coat  of  blue. 

A  country  dear,  Laura, 

And  a  country  now  all  free, 
My  boys  will  have,  Laura, 

When  I  lay  me  down  to  die. 
I'm  coming,  etc. 


ARGIVE  HELEN. 

AT  T  HERE  are  the  heroes  Helen  nursed  for  fame? 

In  old  Argolis  Agamemnon  sleeps ; 
Achilles'  direful  wrath  no  longer  burns, 
For  he  himself  hath  sought  Patroclus'  shade, 
And  Ajax's  soul  hath  tried  the  Stygian  floods. 
Ulysses'  tedious  toils  at  length  are  o'er, 
And  Circe's  arts  and  fair  Calypso's  charms 
Have  ceased  to  rouse  his  old  and  withered  heart. 
The  stones  have  crumbled  ages  hence,  engraved 
With  Menelaus'  grief,  the  Spartan  tomb, 
A  sepulchre,  most  mute,  and  tenantless. 
At  Pelion's  rocky  bluff  Argo  rides  not ; 
Brine-eaten,  her  old  hulk  sank  in  decay, 
While  Chronos  chronicled  the  hoary  deep. 
The  shadows  fall  —  obscure  the  Argive  hills,  — 
Enshroud  the  sounding  shores  in  cold  gray  mists; 
And,  in  the  twilight,  Echo  answers  back 
From  dark  Olympus  and  from  Tempe's  vale, 


ARG1VE  HELEN.  175 

When  Helen  to  her  scattered  children  calls ! 

Her  virgin  form  beside  the  Spartan  sea, 

Shadowed  her  brow  and  with  disheveled  hair, 

In  evening  gloom  she  calls:   "Argives,  awake! 

Helen  is  lost!  is  lost!     Lacona  weeps! 

I  saw  your  ships  when  morn-encrimsoned  Troy, 

High-walled  before  Mount  Ida,  scorned  your  spears ! 

I  saw  the  flashing  fire,  and  knew  your  deeds: 

But  where  that  fire?     The  idle  ships  unmanned; 

The  thought-engraven  brows  inveiled  in  mists; 

The  charge  of  shouting  lines  long  passed  away  ; 

The  god-inspired  no  more  provoked  to  fields 

Of  fame ;  no  more  led  on  to  win  their  bays. 

Alas !  that  all  thy  heroes,  Pylas,  sleep ! 

That  Nestor's  mantle  lies  moth-eaten  now: 

No  helmet  where  his  white  plumes  nod  on  high. 

None  heed,  none  help !     O,  what  avails  the  voice  — 

The  cry  that  echoes  from  the  mournful  sea! 

Dismantled  ships  at  sea-girt  Lemnos  lie, 

Nor  longer  glows  the  fire  at  Vulcan's-  forge  — 

Immortal  Vulcan  of  Olympian  birth ! 

The  wine-press  moulds  in  Scio's  ancient  field, 

The  vats  are  empty  and-  the  casks  unfilled. 


1 76  ARGIVE .  HELEN. 

In  Attica  the  fig-trees  blossom  not; 
Honeyed  Hymettus,  shorn  of  all  her  hives, 
Stands  dark  with  clouds  against  a  sunless  sky ; 
Parnassus,  muse-beloved,  her  lyres  unstrung, 
Looks  down  upon  the  mossed  and  leaning  shafts, 
The  lonesome  shores,  and  bays  with  rotting  hulks; 
Sceptre-bearing  los,  on  the  mottled  sea, 
Mist-swathed  and  rocking  with  an  empty  urn; 
Ivied  and  scarred  the  old  Castalian  flutes, 
And  dried  the  nectar  from  the  golden  vase. 
As  regal  pride  desert,  and  castles  gray 
And  ivy-hung  —  the  walks  to  heather  grown, 
Twin-peaked  Parnassus  in  the  gathering  haze ; 
Thither  the  Thespian  winds  song-breathing  sigh. 
And  further  floats  the  cloud  Apollo  rides  — 
Immortal  watcher  with  the  silver  bow ; 
Further,  the  murmur  of  Cephyssus  flows, 
The  lotus-bearing  ripples  where  did  plunge 
The  snow-necked  virgins  of  the  Phocian  town ; 
Further,  the  sound  of  Helicon's  sweet  harps. 
The  purple  linen  and  the  tunic  loose, 
Descending  from  the  rosy  shoulders  down, 
No  longer  rustles  by  the  sacred  pools, 


ARGIVE  HELEN.  177 

Nor  laughing  Naiads  swirl  the  creamy  spray. 
The  rosy-limbed,  and  finger-tipped  the  hue 
Of  apple-blossoms  kissed  with  May-day  suns, 
Sun-haired,    pink-lipped    and    cheeked,    full    beauty 

wrought 

To  womanhood,  O,  cool  Cephyssus  thou 
Hast  nursed :  and  could  some  Grecian  maid 
But  wrap  the  mantle  of  the  Graces  o'er 
Her  heaven-dewed  limbs,  with  full  dilate  of  youth ! 
Who  spring  from  Grecian  mothers  now,  are  but 
Half  men.     Ill-omened  that  the  part  divine 
Should  perish  out,  our  record  half  unsung. 
Spirit  of  Youth  and  Light !  which  radiant  crowned 
The  gifted  brows  of  such  as  trod  the  walks 
Of  Helicon — whose  thought-revolving  heads 
Divined  the  Argive  fame :  why  flames  not  now 
The  Grecian  boy?     Is  that  plump  robustness 
Of  childhoood's  cheek,  inhumed  within  the  walls 
Of  flesh  beyond  the  resurrection's  reach  ? 
Descends  no  further  down  the  fires  which  move 
The  gods?     Offspring  are  we  of  Heaven,  and  blaclc 
In  our  decay?     Give  not  the  Argive  breasts 
Such  food  as  feeds  the  flame  of  polared  fires, 


178  ARGIVE  HELEN. 

Flashing  on  doubts,  the  true  Olympian  light? 

O,  needs  the  Argive  child  the  cradle  which 

Storm-breeding  (Eta  rocked,  to  lull  the  boy 

Alcmena  gave  to  clear  the  Nemean  groves? 

The  boy  great  Jupiter  himself  confessed 

Was  rightful  heir  of  heaven,  though  Grecian  bred. 

Battle-wearied,  the  ghosts  of  heroes  stand, 

And  to  their  offspring  show  their  many  scars  — 

Their  dozing  heads  yet  idle,  nod  above 

The  nerveless  arms,  still  sinewless  to  grasp 

The  handles  of  the  plough,  or  draw  the  sword. 

Ah !  let  them  sleep :  more  dead  than  they  who  shook 

The  mortal  garments  from  their  aged  fires, 

Foot-sore  upon  the  road  of  time,  and  halt 

With  old  infirmities,  took  to  their  couch, 

Sightless,  but  with  a  page  of  fruitful  deeds. 

Argives,  sleep  on !  storm-weary  rest  the  ships  — 

The  tattered  shrouds  are  corded  to  the  masts, — 

Nor  Jason's  voice  is  heard  upon  the  deck, 

While    threatening    gales    hang    black    on    Pelion' 

heights. 

The  thunder-caps  which  top  the  Thracian  crags 
Now  flash,  but,  to  his  palsied  ear,  no  sound 


ARGIVE  HELEN.  179 

Of  danger  mars  his  deep  forgetfulness. 

The  lions  walk  at  noon  the  Argive  groves : 

Great  Heracles  hath  laid  his  war-club  down, 

Where  (Eta's  awful  lift  upbore  the  pile 

Which  burned  the  mortal  net-work  from  his  ghost  — 

The  mighty  ghost  tormented  with  the  robe 

Poor  Dejanira  steeped  in  Nessus'  blood. 

Juno  relents  at  last  her  jealous  hate, 

And  Jove  —  high  Jove  —  takes  to  his  azure  realms 

His  earth-born  boy,  ascending  in  a  cloud. 

The  morning  sun  on  cool  Salembria  shines  — 

The  Turk  sits  smoking  by  the  Hellespont — 

But  not  a  Thespian  flute  is  heard  from  all 

The  rocks  where  sat  the  youths  Admetus  paid 

To  tend  his  flocks.     The  meadows  blossom  by 

Morea's  streams ;  but  no  Penelope 

Comes  now  to  press  the  marge  with  snowy  feet. 

Declines  the  day;  the  shadow-creeping  bays 

Are  fading  'mong  the  distant  Argive  hills; 

Othrys  but  listens  as  the  moaning  sea, 

Wind-tossed,  surges  along  the  rocky  coast, 

Where  Cronas  sits  and  holds  his  garnered  sheaves. 

The  Grecian  hulks  lie  rotting  on  the  waves; 


l8o  ARGIVE  HELEN. 

Column  and  shaft  of  temples  once  renowned 
Are  leaning,  broken,  in  the  sacred  groves  ; 
And  solitary  all  the  great  highways  : 
Untenanted  cities  once  thronged,  and  mute 
The  places  fired  of  old  with  eloquence. 
Twilight  and  shadow !  only  when  the  moon 
Breaks  through  the  cloud,  Latona's  shores  are  seen 
Time-crumbling  ruins  —  cemeteries  of  art  — 
Monuments,  gray  in  grandeur  —  dust  and  urns  : 
The  stillness  and  the  shadow  unrevoked ! 
And  Helen  with  uplifted  hands,  eyes  avert, 
There  weeps  alone  beside  the  ivied  crags, 
And  asks  an  answer  to  her  piteous  prayers : 
Only  an  echo  cometh  from  the  sea. 


LOFNA  .  HALL. 

T  T  7AKEN,  comrades,  give  the  bugles  wind,  and 

let  us  haste  away, 

For  a  coming  sunbeam  crimsons  through  the  eastern 
veil  of  gray ; 

We  are  on    the   borders  of  a  moorland  where  have 

sunken  deer  and  hound, 
Where  the  gloomy  forests  are    in  beards  that  sweep 

unto  the  ground. 

To  the  seaward,  over  sandy  reaches,  tracts  of  prairie, 

groves  quite  oaken, 
We   may   change   the    desert   and   once    more   hear 

human   language   spoken. 

Once  from  fallen  palfrey,  like  the  knight  of  North  in 

Scotland's  fame, 
Over  ridges    climbing,  losing  hound  and  horse,  and 

balked  my  game, 


1 82  LOFNA  HALL. 

On  a  maiden  veiled  in  white,  who  walked  demurely 

on  alone, 
Came  I.   "  Maiden,  please  your  courtesy,"  I  said,  "  a 

waste  I  tread  unknown, 

"  Faint  I  seek  a  harbor ;  can  you  tell  me  whither  lies 

the  town  ? 
Left  my  dogs  still  baying  west  behind  the  long  back 

of  the  down." 

"  Eastward,"  said  she,  "  where  the  gold  and  crimson 

fringes  mark  the  fall, 
In  the  shadow  of  yon  steeple,  by  an  oak-tree,  Lofna's 

Hall. 

"There  a  harborage  of  Christian  plainness  ;  mark  the 

half-hid  tower, 
As  the  angelus  is  sounding  out  the  holy  angel's  hour." 

Through  the  dreamy  groves  of  Wexford,  yellowing  in 

the  mellow  fall, 
In  a  daze  of  strange  enchantment  on  I  passed  to  Lofna 

Hall. 


LOFJVA  HALL.  183 

In  my  frenzy  if  you  will,  although  I  never  was  more 

sane, 
Eastward  flashed  a  sudden  light,  followed  by  a  starry 

rain. 

And    I   grew  electric,  passed  beyond   myself,  forgot 

my  sports, 
While   I   held  a  banquet  with   the  magnates  of  the 

vestal  courts. 

Say  a  fool  in  glamour,  here  I  sat  with  Agnes   hand 

in  mine, 
And  the  dimples  rippled  in  my  eyes  as  if  I'd  drank 

of  wine. 

And  I  looked  upon  her  face,  where  rose-like  stole 
the  tints  of  light, 

And  I  dwindled  in  that  presence  to  the  merest  ne- 
ophyte. 

Was  I  smaller  for  her  greatness  ?  I  was  carnal,  she 
was  pure  ; 

I  was  passion-flaming,  she  in  placid  stateliness  de- 
mure. 


184  LOFNA   HALL, 

O,  we  show  ourselves  too  much  in  brutal  natures,  and 

too  much  of  dust, 
For  the  noble  father-passion  takes  the  level  of  our  lust. 

And   we   lose    the    very   hour    that   hinges    all    the 

world's  life  greatness, 
Hate  our  nobleness,  and  make  a  manhood  level  with 

our  baseness. 

'Twas  a  wondrous   atmosphere  of  peace  that  fell  as 

holy  rain, 
Never   dropt  from  witch-elm  boughs  so  sweet  a  dew 

to  Allanbane. 

Deep  I  plunged  in  song,  and  deeper  in  the  subtle- 
ties of  things 

Which  stand  symbols  for  the  future,  which  a  large- 
ness brings ; 

Saw   the    starry  head   of   Hope    that  waits    a  victor 

crowned  in  bays, 
And  foretells  the  greener  spring  that  buddeth  for  the 

future  days  ; 


LOFNA   HALL.  185 

Saw  as  Paul,  who  knew  not  whether  in  the  body  or 

without, 
What  was  far.  too  high  for  this  poor  lapsing  age  of 

human  doubt. 

There  I  rested,  and  forgot  the  long   black  ridges  of 

the  downs, 
Left  the  chase  along  the  heath  and  moorland  to  the 

hounds. 

Swallows  in  the  evening  leave  the  wing,  the  roebucks 

cease  to  roam, 
Willingly  the  knight  lets  his  charger's  bit  dry  of  the 

foam. 

Did    I    feast  with  Christian  patience  of  the  wine  in 

lees,  and  corn? 
Nay,  another   craving   more  demanding  in   me  there 

was  born. 

All  my  thoughts  did  smite  me,  shake  me  as  a  tem- 
pest shakes  a  tree, 

As  I  passed  to  Lofna  Hall.  I  was  bondman  and  no 
longer  free. 


!86  LOFNA  HALL. 

And  I  said,  "  O,  speak  me,  Agnes  ;  I  am  tortured  of  a 

pain, 
There  is  drought  upon   my  soul  that  needeth  much 

the  fall  of  rain. 

"  All  my  being  lifteth,  all  my  being  drifteth  up  to  thee.'' 
And  she  looked  on  me  as  angels  look,  with  face  of 
purity. 

And  her  liquid  eyelids  raining  down  a  tender  passion 

rain, 
Trembling  in  her  speech,  and  choked  with  sighs  which 

were  more  bliss  than  pain, 

Said   she,  "  If  you  love  me,  Malcom,   somewhere  in 

the  universe 
We  will  find  an  Eden  never  to  be  blighted  with  the 

curse. 

"  Wait  a  little  for  my  vows ;  there  seems  a  hand  upon 

my  little  bark, 
And  I  drift  in  doubt    and  often  in   the  peril  of  the 

dark  j 


LOFNA  HALL*  187 

"  We  must  trust  the  doubtful,  unrevealed  in  Provi- 

• 

dence ; 

Here  my  vows  .hold  to  my  conscience,  if  they  war 
against  my  sense." 

Was  there  more  to  say?  What  purpose  more  en- 
nobling, high  of  mind, 

Than  to  keep  a  conscience  ?  False  and  fickle,  fickle 
as  the  wind. 

Men   do  speak  of  woman,  that  she  never  can   be 

trusted,  knows 
Not  to-day  to-morrow's  wish,  to-morrow's  whim  ;  the 

wind  that  blows 

Takes  her  sail  and  drifts  her  as  the  chaff  is  drifted 
by  the  gale, 

Ay,  and  this  so  often  that  it  is  now  growing  some- 
what stale. 

Never  more  a  scandal,  never  more  a  falsehood,  speak 

it  he  who  will ! 
You  will  find  false  women,   but  the  truest  true  is 

woman  still. 


!88  LOFNA  HALL. 

First  at  daybreak  she  to  find  the   stone  rolled  from 

* 
the  sepulchre, 

Last  to  leave  the  cross  that  ever  waiteth,  as  it  seems, 
for  her. 

Faithful  in  her  self-denying,  faithful  in  her  daily  tears  ; 
And  the  man  shames  noble  manhood,  who  about  his 
mother  sneers. 

"  As    the    husband    so  the   wife   is."  Apropos,    how 

would  it  sound, 
"As  the  woman  so  her  husband"?    Is  the  quid  pro 

quo  aground? 

Patient  goodness   saveth,   virtue   falling  drags  in  its 

descent ; 
"  As  the  woman  so  the  house  is,"  props  the  subtle 

argument. 

Hark    you,  find    in  woman    inspirations    born  from 

springs  of  lofty  source, 
Something  better  than  the  slave  of  passion,  cursing 

nature  in  her  course. 


LOFNA  HALL.  189 

False  the  world's  old  teaching  to  the  newer  fires  that 

sunlike  blaze ; 
Give  us  nobler  language,  nobly  fitting  to  the  record 

of  these   modern   days, 

Symbols  pregnant  of  the  living,  glowing  like  the  full- 
orbed  morn, 

From  the  shadows  of  the  midnight  and  auroral  fleck- 
ings  born. 

Give  us  symbols  of  the  upward  leading,  symbols  of 

the  heart, 
Where  the  vulgar  dwindles,  where  the  godlike  kindles 

every  part. 

Then  I  said,  "  I'll  to  my  purpose,  for  the  world  is  full 

of  needs  ; 
Tis  the  time  of  battle,  and  to-morrow  hints  of  bravest 

deeds." 

Faint  I  hear  the  human  footstep  urging  on  its  fevered 

tramp, 
All  the  desert  whitens  where  the  noble-souled  knights 

templars   camp. 


I90  LOFNA  HALL. 

Ships  in  purple  twilight  drift,  upborne  by  magic  keel 

and  oar, 
Riding  out  the  remnant  of  a  storm,  while  thunders 

distant  roar. 

'Tis  an  age  to  break    the   bubbles   of  conceit,   haul 

down  the  foist  of  shams, 
To  discard  the  doctrine  that  our  Romuluses  nurse  but 

wolfish  dams. 

Some  say  love  degrades,  and  drags  the  man  immortal 

down  j 
I  grew  upward,  ever  from  the  vulgar,  ever  from  the 

clown. 

It  hath  bred  the  manners,  dignity  in  Parliaments  of 

heaven ; 
For  our  manhood  'tis  the  chemistry  where  ever  works 

the  leaven. 

O  we  stickle  for  the  blood  so  stagnant  and  in  senile 

veins, 
Conscience,  reason,  passion  scorn  it,  even  lust    the 

law  disdains. 


LOFNA  HALL.  !9! 

If  our  fashions  make  our  women  kiss  their  poodles, 

talk  with  polls, 
Out  with  fashion,  fie  on  ribbons,  give  us  something 

more  than  dolls. 

Give  to  woman  larger  room,  and  call  her  not  the 

lesser  man; 
Man  is  unit,  unit  through  the  subtleties  of  nature's 

plan 

In   the  grander  parliaments,  the  federations  of  the 

world, 
There  shall  woman  speak,  another  banner  shall  be 

then  unfurled, 

Bearing  conscience  as  its  motto ;  weakest  factors  are 

our  slaves, 
Be  they  male  or  female,  all  too  much  the  tools  are 

they  of   knaves. 

We  have  lost  our  conscience,  if  indeed  it  was  not 

ever  dumb; 
It  will  nobly  speak  in  Christ  and  woman  in  the  time 

to  come ; 


192  LOFNA  HALL. 

And  the  things  which   shall  be  are  but   shadowed; 

wait  a  little,  pray, 
Till  you  see  the  newer  age  that  ushers  in  the  grander 

day. 

You   shall   see   the  party  trampled,  triumph  of  the 

higher  law, 
Villains  held  to  answer  who  are  slipping  through  the 

verbal  flaw ; 

Science,  letters,  morals  in  the  state,  the  role  of  par- 
liament, 

All   the  age  an  age  of    virtue  with  the  tranquil  of 
,     content. 

Beauty  builds  her  temple,  graces   crown  with   purity 

divme  j 
Let  no  lecherous  dog  perform   the   priestly  offerings 

at  her  shrine. 

None  may  to  that  altar  go  in  rags,  clothed  in  less 
whiteness,  less 

Noble-thoughtedness  than  angels ;  go,  but  as  to  sac- 
raments to  bless, 


LOFNA  HALL.  193 

And  as  royally  for  to  be  blessed.     Here  earth  and 

.  you  a  crown  may  gain, 

Heaven  a  star.  Accept  the  joy,  the  sorrow  of  the 
birthright  pain. 

But  of  love,  the  sweet  embrace  of  love's  most  pure 

delight,  find  all 
Lust  forgotten.     Pray  the  angels  here  to  guard  you 

lest  you  fall. 

There  be  some  who  seem  to  near  the  star-encircled 

height  of  fame, 
While  flies  an  ever-fleeting  promise  budding  on  a 

fruitless  aim : 

I  shall  patient  wait  the  love-lorn  'plaining  of  the  night 
guitars, 

Search  the  distance  trembling  in  the  spheral  wilder- 
ness of  stars, 

But  I'll  find  the  Agnes   I  adore ;  somewhere  in  the 

universe 
Greens  our  Eden,  and  for  all  the  waiting  will  it  be 

the  worse? 

13 


I94  LOFNA   HALL. 

Eastward  at  the  harbor  stands  a  brig,  now  putting  out 

a  sail ; 
Morning  crimsons  and  my  marches  call  me ;  blow  the 

bugle's  hail. 


THE   SNOW  FAY. 

r  I  ^HE  trees  were  sere,  and  sere  was  the  month  of 

the  year, 

And  the  sunbeams  flared  in  the  west ; 
The    singing    birds    had    flown  from  the  meadows 

mown, 
And  the  jay  wore  a  speckled  vest 

From  her  crystal  seat  in  a  cloud  a  snow  fay's  eyes 
Caught  the  scene  so  dreary  and  bare ; 

"For  the  earth  I  will  weave  a  mantle,"  she   said, 

"the  prize 
Of  my  fingers'  most  delicate  care." 

And  she  wove  a  white  frost-web  in  her  fairy  loom, 

Of  the  dew  of  the  cold  void  sphere ; 
She  took  the  chambers  of  the  sky  for  a  room, 

And  spun  in  the  starlight  clear. 


I96  THE  SNOW  FAY. 

She  spun,   she  reeled,   and   she  beat  by  the   astral 

•    lamps 

That  flicker  so  far  above, 
And  the  oafs   pearl-clad  she   called  from   the   elfin 

camps 
To  the  patient  work  of  love. 

And  a  tricksy  sprite  on  a  moonbeam  rode  unto  Dian, 

Who  sat  in  a  light  canoe, 
Rowing  away  from  the  purple  halls  of  the  Lion, 

And  she  swung  her  lamp  in  the  blue. 

Then   fast  beat  the   silent    looms,   and    the   crystal 
thread 

In  the  rapid  shuttle  flew, 
And  the  tiny  oafland  flakes  did  gather  and  wed, 

And  sift  from  the  hazy  blue. 

At  length,  the  mists  below  in  the  lowest  air, 

Uplifted  as  fog  on  a  stream ; 
And  no  longer  sere  and  bare  was  the  earth,  but  fair 

Was  her  gown  as  a  fairy's  dream. 


THE  SNOW  FAY.  197 

On  steeds  of  frost,  then  the  ouphies  fled  to    their 
camps, 

And  Valhallas'  horns  did  blow  ; 
And  Odin  searched  all  night  by  the  astral  lamps 

For  the  delicate  men  of  snow. 

For  the  weirdest  thing,  said  Odin,  the  world  has  seen, 

Is  the  web  so  crystal  and  sheen,  — 
Nor  at  Niffleheim  or  Jotunheim  was  found 

How  the  silver  bobbin  was  wound. 

A  virgin  priestess  there  whom  the  sky-men  call  a 
Norn, 

Whose  page  was  an  oafland  sprite  j 
The  Skaldas  sing  us,  in  songs  of  the  earliest  morn, 

Taught  the  elfins  to  spin  that  night. 

And   Dian,  mid-west  looking  out  of  her  great  hall- 
door, 

Smiled  down  soft  smiles  on  the  mere ; 
All  the  woods  were  in  silvery  leaf;  from  roof  and 

floor 
Through  the  halls  shone  the  oafland  spear. 


198  THE  SNOW  FAY. 

Gnarled   oaks,  as  knights  in   beard  by  rude  castles 

and  grim, 

Stood  accoutered,  the  pine-trees  tall, 
Old  guards  of  the  white  bannered   camps,  haughty 

and  slim, 
Frost-hooded  arose  over  all. 

The  hazels  as  queens  sat  beaded  and  jeweled;  with 

pearls 

The  willows  bent  down  in  their  grace  \ 
Old  elms  by  the  abbeys,  as  monks  in  their  powder 

and  curls, 
Stood  dumbly  with  gloom  on  their  face. 

Weird  weavers  the  oafs  who  toil  in  the  starlit  camps, 
Of  the  phantom  dews  build  their  show ; 

Who    of    ghostly    rivers    above    and    the    midnight 

damps, 
Fill  the  frost-looms  with  webs  of  snow. 


ANGEL  OF   BEAUTY. 

A  NGEL  of  beauty,  sprite  of  my  dreams, 

Why  never  await  the  light  of  the  morn  ? 

Softly  the  sunlight  breaks  on  the  streams, 

• 

And  dew-drooping  lilies  bend  on  the  lawn. 
Fly  not,  thou  fair  of  my  dreams, 
O,  tarry  an  hour, 
Where  the  sweet-scented  flower 
Is  kissed  by  the  morning's  bright  beams. 

Angel  of  beauty,  O  tarry,  I  pray ; 

Why  only  in  dreams  this  face   from  the  sky? 
Though  you  blush  with  the  blushes  that  steal  on 

the  day, 

Press  lip  unto  lip,  let  eye  look  on  eye, 
Fly  not,  thou  fair  of  my  dreams, 
O,  tarry  an  hour, 
Where  the  sweet-scented  flower 
Is  kissed  by  the  morning's  bright  beams. 


THE  BROKEN    BELL. 


broken  bell,  the  broken  bell, 
Within   the  belfry  hangs ; 
The  old  Academy  bell,  the  bell 

Of  the  days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne, 
That  pealed  its  clamor  and  pealed  its  clangs, 
Its  dongs,  its  dingle,  dongle,  dangs, 
Whose  liquid  monotones  did  leap  and  swell, 
And  roll  and  rage  through  molten  cell, 
Through  curve,  ellipse,  and  parallel, 
In  beating  out  its  time, 
In  calling  off  the  school-boys'  time, 

Time,  time,  time, 
With  its  dingle,  dongle,  dangs, 
With  its  clamor  and  its  bangs, 
Prompting  all  the  school-boys  to  the  time. 


THE  BROKEN  BELL.  2OI 

II. 
'Tis  sad  to  hear  the  jarring  bell, 

In  other  days  so  clear ; 
Some  accident  must  have  befell 

This  monitor  of  time  ; 
For  only  now  a  flat-toned  note 
Comes  out  its  hollow,  molten  throat, 
Comes    out    the    chamber    where    his    iron    tongue 

dwells, 

That  breaks  and  falters  as  it  knells, 
Jars  and  strangles  in  its  cells, 
All  the  liquid  cadence  of  its  rhyme, 
All  the  flowing  sweetness  of  the  Nine, 

Nine,  Nine,  Nine, 
All  the  melody  and  music  of  the  Nine. 

in. 

Some  twenty  years  pr  more  ago, 

I  used  to  hear  it  toll ; 
We  hastened  to  its  call,  I  know, 

To  answer  to  the  roll. 
The  tardy-mark  was  sure  to  come 
If,  when  the  school  had  once  begun, 


202  THE  BROKEN  BELL. 

Our  lagging  self,  nor  quick  nor  slow, 
Came  pacing  up  the  winding  stairs  below ; 
Came  wheezing,  puffing,  all  aglow, 
Behind  the  clamor  of  the  toll, 
The  tap  meant  for  the  call  of  roll, 
The  clang  and  clamor  from  patrol, — 
The  warning  to  us  all 
To  quit  at  once  the  quoit  and  ball, 

All,  all,  all, 
To  quit  at  once  the  play  at  quoit  and  ball. 

IV. 

Ah,  sad,  most  sad !  poor  cheer 

Now  flows  within  our  wine ; 
It  is  the  friend  of  many  a  year, 

The  friend  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 
The  old  Brick  House  has  been  the  jest 
Of  many  a  wag,  and  many  a  priest 
Has  cursed  its  broken  walls,  I  fear; 
But  there  be  some  who  have  a  tender  teai 
To  shed,  as  mem'ry  lingers  here : 
Ay,  there  be  some  whose  hearts  can  tell 
The  struggling  hope,  —  the  light  that  fell,  — 


THE  BROKEN  BELL.  203 

The  joy  that  lingers  in  the  bell, 

That  beat  the  hours  of  one  and  nine, 

In  the  days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

Beat,  beat,  beat, 
For  us  the  time  in  the  days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

v. 

Unbare  and  drink,  for  now  we'll  miss 

This  friend  and  pet  of  old. 
There  are  some  days  that  deepen  bliss, 

And  days  forever  cold. 
A  school-boy  knows  the  up,  the  down, 
Where  nests  the  smile,  where  lurks  the  frown ; 
He  knows  the  aching  of  his  brain, 
Of  little  thoughts  slow  born  in  human  pain, 
The  struggle  which  is  never  vain ; 
Of  days  brightly  blinking  with  many  a  cheer, 
Of  days  sadly  linking  with  many  a  tear, 

Cheer,  cheer,  cheer, 
With  many  a  cheer  and  many  a  tear. 
So  brave,  so  noble,  the  days  were  here, 
Days  of  Lang  Syne,  Lang  Syne,  and  the   bell  so 
dear. 


204 


THE  BROKEN  BELL. 


VI. 
'Tis  done,  'tis  done !  its  brazen  throat 

Will  never,  never  ring 
That  mellow  and  familiar  note, — 

Dear  Auld  Lang  Syne  we'll  sing. 
I  mind  a  change  is  on  us  all 
Who  used  to  meet  in  that  old  hall ; 
It  matters  not  how  much  we  doat 
On  loved  remembrances  that  backward  float 
And  cluster  round  the  old  bell's  note ; 
We  ne'er  shall  see  that  bright,  gay  time, 
When  rung  the  bell  its  merry  chime 
In  the  days  of  Auld  Lang  Syne ; 
When  it  rang  the  hour  of  nine, 
The  hours  of  one  and  nine, 

Nine,  nine,  nine, 
One,  one,  one,  one,  the  hours  of  one  and  nine. 


SONG  OF  THE  HYACINTH. 

NE  lay  with  bright  eyes  looking  for  the  Christ, 
And   so  near  to  heaven   it    seemed  that  she 

could  hear 

The  song  of  flowers.     A  purple  hyacinth, 
Which  from  a  vase   drank   dew  and   shed  it  round 
In  fragrance,  played  an  interlude  that  called 
Her  half-flown  spirit  back.     For  when  her  eye 
Was  fixed  on  it,  till  all  her  face  did  smile, 
She  handed  forth  her  pale  white  hand    and  asked 
That  it  be  given  her.    We  never  shall  forget 
That  smile,  the  dainty  way  her  fingers  toyed 
Among  the  petals  ;  lastly,  unto  her  nose 
The  flower  pressing,  music  cadences 
Began,  "  How  sweet !  " —  'twas  even  as  a  child 
Sweet  toys  and  grows  aflame  with  joy.     And  as 
We  gazed  and  saw  the  dappled  halo  glow 


2o6  SONG  OF  THE  HYACINTH. 

And  ripple  over  all  her  face,  we  said 
It  is  the  breaking  light  of  heaven.     That  night 
She  died,  the  fragrance  of  the  hyacinth 
Upon  her  fingers,  sweetest  smile  that  e'er 
Warmed  human  face  yet  lingering ;  and  her 
Low  lullaby  a  song  of  that  sweet  flower. 


SONG. 

There  is  no  death,  no  death,  my  dearest, 

No  death  but  death  of  pain ; 
The  sleeping  ones,  my  child,  are  nearest 

To  Aiden's  rapturing  strain. 

The  sleeping  ones  with  flowers  are  singing, 

"  Holy,  holy,  heaven  is  fair ;  " 
The  weary  ones  of  earth  are  bringing 

Their  sweet  sopranos  there. 

O,  fold  thy  lids  and  drop  thy  sorrow, 

And  sleep  thee  free  of  pain ; 
And  when  thou  wakest  on  the  morrow 

Thou  wilt  be  born  again. 


SONG  OF  THE  HYACINTH.  207 

O  sleep  the  sleep  past  earth's  sad  waking, 

This  death  is  nature's  rest; 
And  in  the  new  morn  that  is  breaking 

Drift  thee  unto  the  blest. 


TO  THE  EVENING  WIND. 

"\T  7HENCE  comest  thou,  O  evening  wind, 
From  clouds  within  the  soft  southwest  ? 
With  spicy  breath  from  shores  of  Ind  ? 

Or  hast  kissed  the  cheek  of  Araby  the  blest  ? 
O,  tell  me,  tell  me,  wandering  breeze, 
Lone  sighing  in  the  swaying  trees ; 
There  is  a  fragrance  on  the  hills 
Of  the  golden  orient  daffodils. 

I  hear,  I  hear  thy  music  swell 

Amid  the  grand  old  elms ;  the  pines 

With  lofty  cones,  from  crag  and  dell 
Where  all  the  dreamy  day  declines, 

Break  forth  with  wild  harmonic  chords ; 

Invisible  are  they  whose  words 

Are  whispered  from  the  haunted  wood 

Where  seems  an  airy  multitude. 


TO  THE  EVENING  WIND.  209 

O  restless  child  of  earth  and  air, 

Whose  formless  steeds  stride  on  amain, 
Whose  presence  seemeth  everywhere, 

Thy  snorting  leaders  snap  the  rein, 
And  wing  their  flight  from  zone  to  zone  ; 
The  wilderness  to  man  unknown, 
Doth  hail  thee  with  a  myriad  harps,  — 
Sad  minors'  plain,  loud  scream  the  sharps. 

Where  drifts  the  lotus-flower,  adown 

The  yellow  Ganges'  sacred  flood, 
Thy  zephyrs  fan  the  fevered  town, 

Thou  bear'st  them  tidings  of  the  Budd. 
There  loll'st  thy  way  through  saffron  skies 
As  drip  the  rain-drops  from  thine  eyes; 
While  Naiads  bathe  in  Bengal  Jair, 
Thy  fingers  part  their  streaming  hair. 

Sing  on,  O  wind,  sweet  evening  wind  ; 

The  sick  man  casts  his  longing  eye, 
As  through  the  latticed  window-blind 

Thy  wafted  whispers  come  a-nigh ; 


2io  TO   THE  EVENING    WIND. 

Thy  wooing  voice  doth  lull  his  ear, 
For  very  joy  there  starts  a  tear ; 
Pain  yields  her  subtle  sting,  as  thou 
Dost  pass  thy  finger  o'er  his  brow. 

And  the  pale  maiden  at  the  door 
Hath  rosy  tints  upon  her  cheeks 
The  while  thou  paintest  health,  and  o'er 

Her  lily  neck  dost  play  thy  freaks. 
And  she  on  whom  consumption's  flush 
Is  seen,  doth  hear  thy  silver  hush ; 
Like  sainted  mother's  voice  it  seems, 
And  while  she  sleeps,  more  sweetly  dreams. 

O  wanderer  of  the  spirit  land, 

Voiceful  in  cities,  solitudes  ; 
Rough  when  thou  roar'st  along  the  strand ; 

Or  lulls  the  shore  at  interludes, 
If  thy  low  voice  bewail  the  woe 
When  fury  lets  her  chargers  go ; 
Nor  softer  lute  than  thine  is  blown 
When  touched  the  silver  chords  thine  own. 


TO   THE  EVENING    WIND.  2\\ 

O  wind,  O  wind,  sweet  evening  wind, 
Sing  on ;  not  Herme's  magic  shell, 
Where  the  Nine  Muses  the  tortoise  bind, 

Hath  woven  a  more  bewitching  spell. 
Beside  the  murmur  of  some  stream 
With  half-shut  eyes  I  seem  to  dream, 
And  dream,  the  murmurs  floating  by, 
And  floating  never  come  more  nigh. 

O  wanderer  of  the  past !     O  wind 
Who'lt  wander  in  the  future  years 

As  lonely  as  the  desert  hind  ; 
Thy  rest  forever  disappears. 

The  dim  long  wastes  thy  song  shall  woo, 

New  ages  hear  thy  breezes  blow ; 

But  all  thy  years  so  manifold, 

O  wind,  shall  never  see  thee  old. 

Sweet  evening  wind,  when  laid  at  rest, 
A  silent  sleeper  among  the  dead, 

And  when  the  violets  o'er  my  breast 
Are  blown,  wilt  thou  come  to  my  bed? 


212  TO   THE  EVENING   WIND. 

Methinks  my  sleep  would  sweeter  be, 
If  thy  sweet  strains  were  in  the  tree, 
If  but  within  the  willowed  glen 
Were  heard  thy  low,  soft  requiem. 


ITCS8 


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